Endgame: The Calling
by gyani2000
Summary: A Global Deathmatch and puzzle, for the fate of humanity, played by Twelve descendants of Ancient Civilisations known as the Players. A fanfiction based on the Endgame series by James Frey.
1. 二

_Endgame has begun. Our future is unwritten. Our future is your future. What will be will be._

 _We each believe some version of how we got here. God made us. Aliens beamed us. Lightning split us, or portals delivered us. In the end, the how doesn't matter. We have this planet, this world, this Earth. We came here, we have been here, and we are here now. You, me, us, the whole of humanity. Whatever you believe happened in the beginning is not important. The end, however. The end is._

 _This is Endgame._

 _We are 12 in number. Young in body, but of ancient people. Our lines were chosen thousands of years ago. We have been preparing every day since. Once the game begins, we must deliberate and decipher, move and murder. Some of us are less ready than others, and the lessers will be the first to die. Endgame is simple this way. What is not simple is that when one of us dies, it will mean the deaths of countless others. The Event, and what comes after, will see to that. You are the unwitting billions. You are the innocent bystanders. You are the lucky losers and the unlucky winners. You are the audience for a play that will determine your fate._

 _We are the Players. Your Players. We have to Play. We must be older than 13 and younger than 20. It is the rule, and it has always been this way. We are not supernatural. None of us can fly, or turn lead to gold or heal ourselves. When death comes, it comes. We are mortal. Human. We are the inheritors of the Earth. The Great Puzzle of Salvation is ours to solve, and one of us must do it, or we will all be lost. Together we are everything: strong, kind, ruthless, loyal, smart, stupid, ugly, lustful, mean, fickle, beautiful, calculating, lazy, exuberant, weak._

 _We are good and evil._

 _Like you._

 _Like all._

 _But we are not together. We are not friends. We do not call one another, and we do not text one another. We do not chat on the internet or meet for coffee. We are separated and scattered, spread around the world. We have been raised and trained since birth to be wary and wise, cunning and deceptive, ruthless and merciless. We will stop at nothing to find the keys to the Great Puzzle. We cannot fail. Failure is death. Failure is the End of All, the End of Everything._

 _Will exuberance beat strength? Stupidity top kindness? Does laziness thwart beauty? Will the winner be good or evil? There is only one way to find out._

 _Play._

 _Survive._

 _Solve._

 _Our "future is unwritten. Our future is your future. What will be will be._

 _So listen._

 _Follow._

 _Cheer._

 _Hope._

 _Pray._

 _Pray hard if that is what you believe._

 _We are the Players. Your Players. We Play for you._

 _Come Play with us._

 _People of Earth. Endgame has begun._

 **Omega Loxias Megalos**

Aziz Mahmut Hudayi Mh, Istanbul, Turkey

Omega Loxias Megalos is bored. She cannot remember a time before the boredom. School is boring, people are boring, even football is boring now that her favourite team, Fenerbahce is being outclassed by Mansiaspor, a team close to relegation.

Omega sneers at the TV in her small, undecorated room. She is slouched onto a plush black leather chair, that sticks to her open back whenever she sits up. It is night in Istanbul, but her room is dark, lit only by the glimmering light of the TV and the streetlights of Istanbul. The window is open, and heat passes like an oppressive ghost crawling over every person's skin, playing with the sanity of people, but not Omega. Neither the humidity, not the long, low calls of ships that fill the air of Istanbul trouble her. All that troubles her, is boredom.

She wears baggy black track pants and a half tank top that is drenched with sweat, from her earlier workout. There's no point in cleaning out of the sweat that came from 500 crunches and push-ups when the heat will easily cause her to sweat again. Half her ribs show through her tanned skin. Her arms are sinewy and hard; her breathing is easy. Beads of sweat roll down her taut stomach, her hair, even dripping over her green eyes. All of Istanbul simmers in the night and Omega is no different.

A book lies open in her lap, ancient and leather-bound. The words on its pages are Greek. Omega has handwritten something in English on a scrap of paper that lies across the open page: From broad Crete I declare that I am come by lineage, the son of a wealthy man. She has read the old book over and over. It's a tale of war, exploration, betrayal, love, and death. It always makes her smile. What she wouldn't give to take a journey of her own, to escape the oppressive heat of this dull city. She imagines an endless sea spread out before her, the cool sea mist against her skin, adventures and enemies arrayed on the horizon.

She sighs and touches the scrap of paper, rubbing it, wishing that it would take her on a grand adventure. In her other hand, she holds a 9000-year-old knife, made of a single piece of bronze forged in the fires of Knossos. She brings the blade across her body lets its edge rest against her right forearm. She knows the limits of the blade. She has trained with it since she could hold it. She has slept with it under her pillow since she was six. She has killed chickens, rats, dogs, cats, horses, bulls, and lambs with it. She has killed 13 people with it.

She is 16, in her prime for Playing. If she turns 20, she will become ineligible. She wants to Play. She would rather die than become ineligible.

But the odds are almost nil that she will get the chance. Unlike Odysseus, war will never find Omega. There will be no grand journey. Her line has waited 9000 years. Since the knife was forged. For all Omega knows, it will wait another 9000 years, long after Omega is gone and the pages of her book have disintegrated.

The crowd on the TV cheers and Omega looks up from the knife. The Fenerbahçe goalie has cleared a rainbow up the right sideline, the ball finding the head of a burly midfielder. The ball bounces forward, over a line of defenders, near the last two men before the Manisaspor keeper. The players rush for the ball, and the forward comes away with it, 20 meters from the goal, free and clear of the defender. The keeper gets ready. Omega leans forward. Match time is 83:34. Fenerbahce is yet to score, and doing so in such a dramatic way would save some face. The old book slides to the floor. The piece of paper drifts free of the page and slips through the air like a falling leaf. The crowd begins to rise. The sky suddenly brightens, as if the gods, the Gods of the Sky themselves, are coming down to offer help. The keeper backpedals. The forward collects himself and takes the shot, and the ball blasts off.

As it punches the back of the net, the stadium lights up and the crowd screams, first in exaltation for the goal, but immediately afterwards in terror and confusion—deep, true, and profound terror and confusion. A massive fireball, a giant burning meteor, explodes above the crowd and tears across the field, obliterating the Fenerbahçe defense and blasting a hole through the end of the stadium grandstand.

Omega's eyes widen. She is looking at total carnage. It is butchery on the scale of those American disaster movies. Half the stadium, tens of thousands of people dead, burning, lit up, on fire.

It is the most beautiful thing Omega has ever seen.

She breathes hard. Sweat pours off her brow. People outside are yelling, screaming. A woman wails from the café below. Sirens ring out across the ancient city on the Bosporus, between the Marmara and the Black.

On TV the stadium is awash in flames. Players, police, spectators, coaches run around, burning like crazed matchsticks. The commentators cry for help, for God, because they don't understand. Those not dead or on their way to being dead trample one another as they try to escape. There's another explosion and the screen goes black. It's a glorious sight.

Omega's heart wants out of her chest. Omega's brain is as hot as the football pitch. Her stomach is full of rocks and acid. Her palms feel hot and sticky. She looks down and sees that she has dug the ancient blade into her forearm, and a rivulet of blood is trickling off her hand, onto the chair, onto her book. The book is ruined, but it doesn't matter; she won't need it anymore. Because now, Omega will have her Odyssey.

Omega looks back to the darkened TV. She knows there's something waiting for her there amidst the wreckage. She must find it.

A single piece.

For herself, for her line.

She smiles. Omega has trained all of her life for this moment. When she wasn't training, she was dreaming of the Calling. All the visions of destruction that her teenage mind concocted could not touch could not touch what Omega has witnessed tonight. A meteor destroying a football stadium and killing 38,676 people.

The legends said it would be a grand announcement. For once, the legends have become a beautiful reality.

Omega has wanted, waited, and prepared for Endgame her entire life. She is no longer bored, and she won't be again until she either wins or dies.

This is it.

She knows it.

This is it.

 **Chiyoko Takeda**

Hateshinai Tori, Naha, Okinawa, Japan

Three chimes of a small pewter bell awake Chiyoko Takeda. Her head lolls to the side. The time on her digital clock: 5:24. She makes a note of it. These are heavy numbers now. Significant. She imagines it is the same for those who ascribe meaning to numbers like 11:03 or 9:11 or 7:07. For the rest of her life she will see these numbers, 5:24, and for the rest of her life they will carry weight, meaning and significance.

Chiyoko turns from the clock on her side table and stares into the darkness. She lies naked on top of the sheets. She licks her full lips. She scrutinizes the shadows on her ceiling as if some message will appear there.

The bell should not have rung. Not for her.

All her life she has been told of Endgame and her peculiar and fantastical ancestry. Before the bell rang, she was 17 years old, a homeschooled outcast, a master sailor and navigator, an able gardener, a limber climber. Skilled at symbols, languages, and words. An interpreter of signs. An assassin able to wield the wakizashi, the Hojo, and the shuriken. Now that the bell has rung, she feels 100. She feels 1,000. She feels 10,000 and getting older by the second. The heavy burden of the centuries presses down upon her.

Chiyoko closes her eyes. Darkness returns. She wants to be somewhere else. A cave. Underwater. In the oldest forest on Earth. But she is here, and she must get used to it. Darkness will be everywhere soon, and everyone will know it. She must master it. Befriend it. Love it. She has prepared for 17 years and she's ready, even if she never wanted it or expected it. The darkness. It will be like, a loving silence, which for Chiyoko is easy. The silence is part of who she is.

For she can hear, but she has never spoken.

She looks out her open window, breathes. It rained during the night, and she can feel the humidity in her nose and throat and chest. The air smells good.

There is a gentle rapping on the sliding door leading to her room. Chiyoko sits in her Western-style bed, her slight back facing the door. She stamps her foot twice. Twice means Come in.

The sound of wood sliding across the wood. The quiet of the screen stopping. The faint shuffle of feet.

"I rang the bell," her uncle says, his head bowed low to the ground, according the young Player the highest level of respect, as is the custom, the rule. "I had to," he says. "They are coming. All of them."

Chiyoko nods.

He keeps his gaze lowered. "I am sorry," he says. "It is time."

Chiyoko stamps five arrhythmic times with her foot. Okay. Glass of water.

"Yes, of course." Her uncle backs out of the doorway and quietly moves away.

Chiyoko stands, smells the air again, and moves to the window. The faint glow from the city's lights blankets her pale skin. She looks out over Naha. There is the park. The hospital. The harbour. There is the sea, black, broad, and calm. There is the soft breeze. The palm trees below her window whisper. The low grey clouds begin to light up as if a spaceship is coming to visit.

"Old people must be awake," Chiyoko thinks. "Old people get up early. They are having tea and rice and radish pickles. Eggs and fish and warm milk. Some will remember the war." The fire from the sky that destroyed and decimated everything. And allowed for a rebirth. What is about to happen will remind them of those days. But a rebirth? Their survival and their future depend entirely on Chiyoko.

A dog begins to bark frantically.

Birds trill.

A car alarm goes off.

The sky gets very bright, and the clouds break downward as a massive fireball bursts over the edge of town. It screams, burns, and crashes into the marina. A great explosion and a billow of scalding steam illuminate the early morning. Rain made of dust and rock and plastic and metal hurls upward over Naha. Trees die. Fish die. Children, dreams, and fortunes die. The lucky ones are snuffed out in their slumber. The unlucky are burned or maimed.

Initially, it will be mistaken for an earthquake.

But they will see.

It is just the beginning.

The debris falls all over town. Chiyoko senses her piece coming for her. She takes a large step away from her window, and a bright ember shaped like a mackerel falls onto her floor, burning a hole in the tatami mat.

Her uncle knocks on the door again. Chiyoko stomps her foot twice. Come in. The door is still open. Her uncle keeps his gaze lowered as he stops at her side and hands her first a simple blue silk kimono, which she steps into, and, after she's in the kimono, a glass of very cold water.

She pours the water over the ember. It sizzles, spurts, and steams, the water immediately boiling. What is left is a shiny, black, jagged rock.

She looks at her uncle. He looks back at her, sadness in his eyes. It is the sadness of many centuries, of lifetimes coming to an end. She gives him a slight bow of thanks. He tries to smile. He used to be like her, waiting for Endgame to begin, but it passed him over, like it did countless others, for thousands and thousands of years.

Not so for Chiyoko.

"I am sorry," he says. "For you, for all of us. What will be will be."

 **Sarah Alopay**

Bryan High School, Omaha, Nebraska, United States

"0,1,1,2,3,5,8..." thinks Sarah counting the Fibonacci Sequence in her mind. On all sides are familiar people, fellow students, but she still feels anxious. She doesn't let it show. She has mastered the ability to feel one thing but show another.

The Principal stands, smiling, briefly searching for someone. "And so it is with great pride that I present your class valedictorian, Sarah Alopay!"

The crowd cheers, applauds, whistles.

Sarah stands. She's wearing a red cape and gown with the Valedictorian's sash across her chest. She smiles. Her face hurts, she's been smiling so much. But it's what allows people to trust her. Her smile ensures that she isn't seen as a threat to others. Just another girl, another cog within the human society.

But Sarah is happy. She is leaving one part of her life behind, to start another one. She's going to spend her summer in an archaeological dig in Bolivia with her boyfriend, Christopher, and in the fall, it's off to college at Princeton. As soon as she turns 20, she can start the rest of her life. That would indeed be the happiest day of her life.

In 742 days, she will be free.

No longer eligible.

She's in the second row, a few seats away from the aisle. Next to her is Reena Smithson, her best friend since 3rd grade. She knows Reena better than Reena knows herself. They have shared food, class notes, gossip and secrets for so long, they could be living the same life in different bodies. But as Sarah catches Reena's hazel eyes in a loving stare, Sarah knows that Reena doesn't know her. That some secrets are too dark to share and Reena will never understand Sarah's burden.

A few rows behind her is Christopher. She steals a look at him as she enters the aisle. Blonde hair, five o'clock shadow and green eyes. An even-temper and a huge heart. To her, he is the best-looking boy in the world.

"Go get'em, tiger," mouths Christopher. Sarah walks up the aisle with a big smile. She and Christopher have been together since the 7th grade. Inseparable. Christopher's family is one of the wealthiest in Omaha. So wealthy, in fact, that his mom and dad couldn't be bothered to fly back from business in Europe to attend their own son's graduation. When Christopher crosses the stage, it will be Sarah's family cheering the loudest. Christopher could've gone to private school or the boarding school where his father went, but he refused, not wanting to be apart from Sarah. It is one of the many reasons she loves him and believes they will be together for their entire lives. She wants it, and she knows he does as well. And in 742 days it will be possible. When the weight she hides from him, becomes someone else's trouble.

Sarah gets on stage. She's still counting the Fibonacci sequence in perfect order. Sometimes its the only thing that can calm her down. She has on the pink Ray-Ban Wayfarers her dad gave her for Christmas, a pair of glasses that obscures her brown, wide-set eyes. Her long auburn hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. Her smooth, bronze skin is luminous. Under her gown, she is dressed like all the others.

Yet how many others carry the weight of a millennia-old artefact onto the stage with them? Sarah wears it around her neck, just as Tate had worn it around his when he was eligible, as it has been passed from Player to Player, for 300 generations. Hanging from an ordinary chain is a polished black stone that has seen 6000 years of love, sorrow, beauty, light, sadness and death.

She steps to the mic, looks west over her class, her school. Behind the last line of 319 students is a stand of tall green-leafed oaks. The sun is shining and it's hot, but she doesn't care. None of them do. They are finishing one part of their lives and beginning a new one. They are all excited. They are all imagining the future. Future studies, jobs, love. Sarah's to be the voice of her class and has worked hard on her speech, so that she may inspire them. It's a lot of pressure, but she's used to that. All she's looking forward to is a future without Endgame.

Sarah leans forward and clears her throat. "Congratulations, and welcome to the best day of our lives, or the best day so far!"

The kids go crazy, and a few prematurely toss their caps into the air. Some laugh. More cheer, "Sar-ah! Sar-ah! Sar-ah!"

"While I was thinking about my speech," Sarah says, her heart pounding, "I decided to answer a question. Immediately I thought, 'What question is most often asked of me?' and though it's a little embarrassing, it was easy to answer. People are always asking me if I have a secret!"

Laughter. Because it's true. If there was ever a perfect student at the school, it was Sarah. And at least once a week, someone asked what her secret was.

"After thinking long and hard, I realized it was a very simple answer. My secret is, that I have no secrets."

That is as great a lie as any Sarah has had to say. She has secrets. Profound secrets. Secrets that have been kept among her people for thousands of years. And though she's done extraordinary things in school to be the most popular person in school, she's done so much more. Things the students, the teachers, Reena and Christopher can't even imagine. Like walking on hot coals, staying awake for a week straight; Sarah speaks nine languages and has five passports. While they think of her as the All-American-Girl and Homecoming Queen, the reality is that she's as highly trained and deadly as any soldier on Earth.

"I am as you see me. I am happy and able because I allow myself to be happy. I learned young that being active breeds more activity. That the gift of studying is knowledge. That seeing grants sight. That if you don't feed anger, you won't be angry. Sadness and frustration, even tragedy, are inevitable, but that doesn't mean that happiness isn't there for us, for all of us. My secret is that I choose to be the person that I want to be. That I don't believe in destiny or predetermination, but in choice, and that each of us chooses to be the person we are. Whatever you want to be you can be; whatever you want to do you can do; wherever you want to go you can go. The world, and the life ahead, is ours for the taking. The future is unwritten, and you can make it whatever you want it to be."

Everyone is quiet now.

"I am looking west, beyond the bleachers and trees, are the lands of my ancestors. Above is the sky. Below is the earth. All around is life, and life is -"

Sarah is interrupted by a sonic boom in the sky. A bright streak breaks over the oaks, scarring the blue sky. It doesn't appear to be moving, just getting bigger. For a moment everyone stares in awe. A few people gasp. One person clearly says, "What is that?"

Everyone stares until a solitary scream comes from the back row, and it hits the whole assembly at once. It's like someone has flipped a switch for panic. The sounds of chairs tipping over, people screaming, total confusion. Sarah gasps. Instinctively, she reaches through her gown and grabs the stone around her neck.

It's heavier than it has ever been. The asteroid or meteor or comet or whatever it is, is changing it. She's frozen. Staring as the streak moves toward her. The stone on the chain changes again, feeling suddenly light. Sarah realises that it's lifting into the air under her robe. It works itself free of her clothing, pulls in the direction of the thing that is coming for them.

This is what it looks like.

This is what it feels like.

Endgame.

The sounds of terror fall away from her ears, replaced by a stunned silence. Though she has trained for this day, for half her life, she never thought it would come. She was hoping it wouldn't for 742 days. She was supposed to be free.

"Sarah!" screams Christopher yanking her off stage. They have maybe seconds before the fireball hits. Its riveting, terrible and all too sudden audible that it throws Sarah's instincts into a frenzy.

"Come now!" Christopher yells. His face is red with alarm and the heat, his eyes are watering. She can see her brother and her parents at the bottom of the steps. They have seconds. Maybe less.

At the last moment Christopher and Sarah vault of the stage. They shut their eyes and crumple onto the grass. The necklace is pulling on Sarah's neck so hard, it digs through her skin. Suddenly, it pulls free and seeking out the meteor and at the last minute, the fireball changes direction, stopping a thousand feet short and skipping over them, like a flat rock on a smooth lake. It happens so quickly that no one can see it, but Sarah realises that she has been spared. Because she is the Player of the Cahokian.

The meteor flies over the cement grandstand and impacts a quarter mile to the east. The school building is there. The parking lot. Some basketball courts. The tennis courts.

Not anymore.

The meteor destroys them all.

Boom.

They are gone.

Those comforting and familiar places where Sarah has spent her life—her normal life, anyway—are gone in an instant. Everything wiped away. A new chapter has begun, just not the one Sarah hoped for.

A shock wave rushes out and over the field, carrying dust and darkness. It hits them hard, flattens them, knocks them down, blows out their eardrums.

"Sarah!" she hears someone yell. "Sarah!" Her father emerges from the dust cloud that was the stage, he is carrying her mother by her arm.

"Dad!" she says getting up and taking the other side. "Where's Tate?" they ask each other simultaneously.

"I am here," says Tate emerging from the chaos that was once the audience and 319 graduating students. He has an ear-to-ear grin as he comes to Sarah holding something reverently. "I found it," he says triumphantly, "It's on, it's on for real."

He is amazingly clean, as though the whole thing passed him over. One hand is in a fist; the other holds a grapefruit-sized hunk of gold-and-green rock streaked with black veins of metal.

"Nukumi," says Sarah's father reverently.

"Nukumi," says Sarah distraught.

"What?" asks Christopher, collecting himself.

Sarah says, "Nothing-" but is cut short as an explosion sends shards of metal flying through the air. A six-foot-long piece of steel embeds itself into the middle of Tate's chest. He is dead. Gone in an instant. He falls backwards, Sarah's stone pendant and the piece of green-veined rock still in his hands.

Her mother screams; her father yells, "No!"

Sarah cannot speak. Christopher stares in shock. Blood oozes out of Tate's chest. His eye is open and staring, lifeless, to the sky. His feet twitch, the last bits of life leaving him. But the stone and the pendant, they are safe.

This is not accidental.

The stones have meaning.

Carry a message.

This is Endgame.

 **Vijay Saxena**

Malcha Wildlife Reserve, New Delhi, India

"Why now?" thinks Vijay Saxena, starring east into the early light. He is sitting on top of a tiled roof of the little forest-covered buildings of Malcha, looking far east, past the business and government districts of Connaught Place and the Indian Parliament. Smoke from these important places fills the sky. But it's not because of excessive traffic and overcrowding, that these places are usually used to.

Vijay brings his knees closer to his chest, allowing him to free his hands. He's ordinarily dressed for a teenager in India, in a black t-shirt and blue jeans. He's wearing a ruined white hoodie, covered in red and black stains. Covering his neck is a blue cashmere scarf. He looks like a protagonist at the end of a Hollywood action movie. But he knows that he's no protagonist. To his people, maybe.

But to the rest of the world, he is their enemy.

Vijay carries the distinct ocher skin and dark brown eyes native to the Indian subcontinent, which fall under the shadow created by his dense, long hair. In his 5 feet 8-inch frame, he's generally shorter or smaller than others but still swift. He's only 17, but his mind is older. He has spent more time sharpening his mind, rather than his body, to the extent that he has an IQ of 164 and an eidetic memory. Neither of those traits came naturally to him. His face carries an ordinary look. The look he puts on in front of a mirror each day. The look that does not give away what's going on in his mind. The look that he's another ordinary school-boy, in the land of a billion people.

But the truth is, he's not.

Vijay removes his scarf and then his hoodie. In the brief moment that his neck is naked, a feeling of intense cold and discomfort passes over him. In the blatant heat of the Indian summers, his bare neck still feels a winter's chill. Unlike the rest of his body, his neck is a shade of deep-sea blue, which looks and feels like a beacon for all the people nearby. He quickly wraps his neck in the scarf once more, feeling warm and safe once more.

But the truth is, he won't be safe. No one will.

He is tired. He hasn't slept all night. He contemplates trying to sleep again. He lies back down and shuts his eyes, against the intensifying light of the sun. He hopes that he will finally fall into a dream. But vivid memories of the night before keep flashing past his closed eyes. Vijay's mind races, his heartbeat quickens, and sleep continues to elude him.

It may elude him for the rest of his life.

Vijay opens his eyes once more, breathing heavily. A single tear falls from his left eye. He angrily lifts his left arm up and slams it down, onto the surface of the roof. A couple tiles shatter upon impact. His hand and forearm begin to bleed from a sizeable cut. The pain makes itself known but soon retreats to another corner of Vijay's mind. Even physical agony can't distract him from the images that have stolen his peace.

For in those images, there is no peace, but destruction and death.

Vijay closes his eyes once more. This time he doesn't fight it. He embraces the memories and images of the night before. His mind takes him there effortlessly, like hitting play on a DVD. He was dancing. Celebrating under the cover of the forests another year of survival and prosperity for his people, his family, his line. They sang and danced, threw offerings of food into the bonfire and danced more. Vijay saw his people; looking happy as ever, taking a day off from their responsibilities to their nation, to celebrate what they had accomplished in secret.

They celebrated their fantastical ancestry, from the gods under the moonlit night. They celebrated the foundation of Harappa nearly 10,000 years ago. All the different personnel in the forest, undergoing the initial training to serve the line. Soldiers and spies. Civil servants, engineers and doctors. Scholars, Priests and Priestesses. And one person who trained for it all. One Player. Hidden from the world under the cover of the restricted forests. Carrying the responsibility to serve their brothers and sisters. To serve their fellow descendants of a great Line. To serve Harappa.

But here, under the starry sky, he is just an unmoved piece on the chess board. Waiting for Endgame. Hoping. Praying the millennia-old prophecy doesn't come to fruition. It won't come for him. He will not be moved in this game.

Endgame. The ever-present fantasy, subject to his constant imagination. He imagines the death and destruction prophesized with its coming. In a world where nothing of the future is written, Harappan scholars think of it as the ultimate constant. One final test of Darwinism, between humans. And it, like so many before him, refuses to leave his mind in peace.

He remembers being part of the circle that formed around the bonfire. He recalls looking at the girls. He remembers looking at one particular girl. A priestess in her blood red, apprentice robes, dancing gracefully with her friends. He looks at her friends. Some haven't adorned themselves as modestly as herself. Some have adorned themselves in too much. But this priestess has found a balance. Something about her attracts Vijay.

"What do we have here?" asks Sathvik, a boy his age. They are about the same height and have been friends for nearly 5 years. What differentiates him, is the shirt and tie that he wears. It's the standard attire for a civil servant or those training to perform those duties within official Government braches, as representatives of Harappan interests. He speaks in perfect English. Over 16 languages are spoken in this camp, but English is learnt and spoken by everyone.

"You were always the better judge, you tell me," replies Vijay. His eyes are still drawn to the same girl, who spins gracefully at the centre of them all.

"I don't think I have seen you look at girls for this long, my friend," Sathvik says, seeking to see who Vijay was looking at. "Are you looking at the new one?"

"The new one?" he asks.

"Priestess, the one who's spinning."

Vijay smiles and looks at Sathvik. "No, I am not looking at the new Priestess."

"Okay," chuckles Sathvik. "I'll just add staring into space occupied by colourful people, into the list of things Vijay Saxena doesn't do."

"Shut up," says Vijay flustered but amused. He looks back at the dancing girls.

"And again!" teases Sathvik. "Honestly, what brings about this sudden discovery of women, my friend."

"Women? They are teenagers. So are we."

"But are we?" Sathvik says in a philosophical voice, mocking Vijay. He goes over to a nearby bucket and removes two bottles of Coke. He offers one to Vijay.

"You know I don't drink that stuff," Vijay says holding his hand up in refusal.

"It's not for you, idiot. Look," he says pointing. The priestess is now walking away from the others, taking a seat at a nearby log. She sits alone. Vijay takes the bottle in his hand and thinks.

"Remember," says Sathvik. "Conquer fear, to be victorious," quoting a famous advertisement in Hindi.

"And, why aren't you taking this opportunity yourself?" he asks.

Sathvik smiles. "You see my naive friend. You don't send the commandos until the police have failed."

Vijay laughs at his friend's endearing pragmatism. "If I crash and burn, you will pick up the pieces. It's a good strategy."

"Chanakya would be proud, don't you think?" says Sathvik. His smile lingers on for a moment but quickly dissipates as he sees Vijay's expression change slightly. "I am sorry," he quickly says. "Shouldn't have brought it up."

"Don't be," says Vijay putting on a smile once more. "I am going for it." He turns and walks slowly, not showing any intention or purpose. Just another outlier in the party. He stands by a nearby tree, the priestess about 6 feet to his left. She's still breathing heavily. Vijay can see her more clearly now that she isn't moving.

Vijay tries to think about how to begin the conversation. Asking her name seems to direct, makes him look too inquisitive. Perhaps he will ask her something he already knows.

"Are you new here?" he says in Hindi, in her direction. She turns to look at him. He has a much clearer look of her face. He can tell she's from the Northern regions. Guessing that she knew Hindi was just a hunch based on her features. The lighter skin of the Northern parts, and peculiarly green eyes.

"Yes," she replies. "I came here from Rakhigarhi. I am finishing my apprenticeship soon." Vijay nods. She still looks too young to be in her final years of training. So he asks something else, he already deduced.

"Aren't you too young to be in the final year?" he asks walking closer. He offers her the bottle. She pauses for a moment and takes the bottle, smiling.

"It would be easier to talk to you if you sat down, Neelkanth," she says between sips. Vijay quietly makes his way around the log and sits down. He realises how she has dodged his question, and now the burden of continuing the conversation lies with him.

"What gave it away?" he asks. She looks at him and points at her neck, indicating at the scarf.

"Not many people here know why you wear that," she remarks.

"Many people are new here," he replies, indicating at his earlier question. She smiles. The invisible token of maintaining the conversation passes onto her. He can see her thinking about her next response.

"The past few years, I dedicated myself to the study of the ancient scripts," she says, answering his earlier question. "I finished theosophy faster that way. Now, I am just finishing this final stage, after which, it's just waiting for a posting to spread enlightenment."

"Or control the population, with your translation of God," commented Vijay.

"So, you disapprove Neelkanth?" she asks.

"I don't have the authority to disapprove anything," says Vijay.

"Of course you do. All you have to do is remove the scarf and everyone will see that God walks amongst them," she replies, making a sweeping motion, indicating at the people in front of them.

"I don't think to have a blue neck, classifies me as a God. If you cut me, I will bleed. If you poison me, I will die," he replies. He likes the exchange that he's having with this priestess. "How can a mortal, be a God?"

"Since when did only immortals become Gods?" she asks excitedly. "Lord Rama was a mortal. Lord Krishna was mortal. And since when did Gods become impervious to injury? Isn't Lord Shiva called Neelkanth, because he drank the poison from the churning of the seas, but to avoid dying kept the poison in his throat for all eternity?"

"Wow," he laughs. "You have an answer for everything."

"It's a simple matter of consciousness and matter. Together, they form us and the Gods. Sometimes both. But nothing is written, and maybe we are wrong about the whole thing. In the end, what will be..."

"Will be," Vijay says completing the proverb. There, Endgame makes its presence known once more. The immortal proverb that hasn't changed since the inception of Harappa 10,000 years ago. There is silence between them, which is loudly filled by the celebration around the bonfire. A cool breeze is flowing eastward, moving around them, like a graceful ghost under the full moon. Beyond the bonfire, Vijay can see the dim lights coming from the urban parts of the capital. It is something else at night. But right now, he wants to know more about the curiosity that is this Priestess.

"What's your name?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"What is yours?" she asks.

"Don't you know? I am Neelkanth, the drinker of poison," says Vijay, inciting a giggle

from her. She pauses and thinks for a moment.

"My name is..." She stops speaking.

Vijay turns his head to the direction she was looking when she froze. He sees two snakes.

"Don't worry. Stay still…" he says to her. "They won't do anything, if we stay still." Vijay moves slightly to his left, getting closer to the priestess. The snakes haven't shown any interest in them yet. Maybe they will be left alone.

"They won't attack us, without reason. Right?" asks the Priestess. She continues to smile, but her voice is shaky. Vijay slowly extends his hand, toward the priestess. She looks at him and puts her hand in his.

"We will be fine," he says reassuringly.

It does the trick. The Priestess leans in, drawing on Vijay's energy, to become confident. But he can still feel her heart, hammering wildly.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

She looks at him. Her smile dissipates into a beautiful sadness. She looks helpless. It's an expression that sends a chill down his spine.

"Two snakes, Neelkanth," she says sorrowfully. "One snake protects the house. The other brings the news of death."

Both of them see it. It lights up the sky, in a bright flash of yellow. It's as though the Sun has risen into the night. A huge burst of sound makes everyone in the camp look at It. It grows brighter by the second. Suddenly the joyous clamour has turned into a silent awe, but not soon enough, it turns into panicked screams.

It, is a huge flaming ball of molten rock. For a moment it looks like It is headed straight for them. But it changes direction. It's going eastward, with the breeze. As the distance grows between them and the meteor, They can see that it's really two large meteors, going at different trajectories from the same point. Large fires erupt from the heavily crowded areas of Connaught Place, and the symbolic North Block of the Secretariat Building.

Vijay can't believe it. It wasn't meant to happen for him. But it is here. He is the Player and this is his Calling. Never did he imagine it would be this destructive. Never did he imagine his people would be hurt in such a wanton way.

"Dear God," says the Priestess. The snakes have disappeared. Vijay tries to convince himself that they weren't an apparition. The Priestess looks at Vijay. Everyone in their encampment is still screaming, crying. People are all over the place. They are just spectators. They will remain spectators. Watching the game that decides their fate.

Watching Endgame.

But not Vijay. He has to do something. More importantly, he has to get his piece.

"Everyone!" he yells, standing up. He quickly manages to gain everyone's attention. He speaks English, so everyone can understand him. "Our brothers and sisters need help. Military and medical personnel, with me!"

He quickly organizes a relief team and becomes part of one of the many vehicles that leave the forest compound. They add to the ranks of the first few ambulances and fire-brigades. They pull people trapped in the hellish fires of the impact zones. Vijay knows he can't get hurt, but others can. For now, the Players are immune to danger. He braves the fires and pulls half-burning men; screaming and helpless women out. He's covered in blood, but it isn't his. Ashes fall as buildings disintegrate around him in the flaming frenzy. His eyes burn. His ears are deafened by the fires and nearby explosions of the aftermath.

He searches. He goes into the fire, to search for his piece, but returns with people around his shoulders. An orphaned child, a burned woman; a really fat man missing his arm, but no piece.

No Calling.

The fires finally begin to die down. They have fought the fires for nearly four hours. It's past midnight and they are still finding survivors. The crisis is nearly at its end.

Vijay spots a large crater on the ground, where the fires have been extinguished. A plume of smoke rises to the top, from the crater. He walks closer. There is a small shadow within the smoke, in the centre of the crater. Vijay slowly approaches it. Something luminescent glows through the smoke, like a faint blue neon light. As he walks towards it the smoke retreats. Finally, it reveals a small girl. She's holding a disk-like rock, about the size of a large mango. It's radiating a bluish hue.

The girl extends her arms out, offering him the rock. She looks at him, with an expression of helplessness. The same helplessness the Priestess had hours ago. Vijay's stomach fills with acid as he notices something wrong in the way she sits. Vijay takes the rock and glances behind her. His eyes tear up at the sight. Shards of glass are embedded into her back. Her arms drop lifelessly. She dies sitting up.

The memory is enough to force Vijay's eyes open. He won't be able to forget the fires, the death, or the girl's dying expression. His mind will make sure of it.

The sun has risen fully. The rock has seized radiating light the way it did. Vijay knows what he must do with it. With his still bleeding hand, he makes a fist, squeezing blood down onto the rock. It glows again, becoming unnaturally cold. Little lights glimmer all around the rock. The lights look random at first, but Vijay can see through the deception. The little lights translate into glyphs onto his mind's eye, telling him his destination.

He was being a normal person. Talking to his friends. Talking to a girl. He could have continued being a normal person and served his Line. But not anymore. Endgame is far from normal. He will have to travel far from home and fight in foreign lands, against foreign enemies, who have as much to lose as him.

Vijay isn't unprepared. He has trained for this moment his entire life. He has trained with every weapon created in human history. He has tried to expand the limits of his mind and beyond. The stakes are high, but he is prepared. Or so he thinks.

Vijay knows where he must go. He knows what he must do. And he has seen what failure will lead to. There will be more death. There will be more destruction. But he must Play. Play for his life. Play for his line.

"What will be, will be," he whispers.

This is Endgame.

 **Jago Tlaloc**

Tlaloc Residence, 12 Santa Elisa, Juliaca, Puno, Peru

Jago Tlaloc's sneakers crunch across broken glass. It is night and the streetlights are out. Sirens wail in the distance, but otherwise, Juliaca is quiet. It was chaos before; when Jago first headed for the crater in the city centre to claim what had been sent for him. In the madness, survivors poured into the streets, shattering shop windows, taking whatever they wanted.

The looting will not sit well with Jago's father, who runs protection for many of the local businesses. But Jago does not blame his people. Let them enjoy some comforts now, while there is still time. Jago has a treasure of his own: the stone, still warm, wrapped in his satchel and tossed over his shoulder.

A hot wind rushes through the buildings, carrying ash and the smell of fire. They call Juliaca the Windy City of Peru for good reason. Unlike many of his people, Jago has travelled well beyond the city limits. He has killed at least twice on every continent, and still, he finds it strange to visit a place where the wind is missing.

Jago is the Player of the 21st line. Born to Guitarrero and Hayu Marca just over 19 years ago. Once Players themselves, several years apart, his parents now run this part of the city. From the legitimate businesses to the illicit materials that flow through the neighbourhood's back alleys, his parents take a cut of everything. They are also philanthropists, in a way, turning around their often ill-gotten money to open schools and maintain hospitals. The law does not touch them, refuses to come near them; the Tlaloc family is too much of a resource. In just a few more months, Jago would have become ineligible and joined his parents in the family business. Yet all empires must crumble.

A trio of shadows peels from the mouth of a nearby alley. The figures block the sidewalk in front of Jago, looking wolfish and dangerous.

"What you got there, my friend?" hisses one of the shadows, nodding at Jago's satchel.

In response, Jago flashes his teeth, which are perfectly straight and white. His maxillary lateral incisors are each capped with gold and each inset with a small diamond. These gems glint in the moonlight.

The three scavengers shrink back, "Sorry, Feo," says the leader, "we didn't recognize you."

They should be scared, but not of Jago or the power of his family, though Jago is strong and merciless, and his family more so. They should be scared of what is to come. They don't know it, but Jago is the only hope these people have. Once, the power of his family was enough to keep this neighbourhood and its people alive and happy. Now that responsibility falls to Jago.

He passes by the thugs without a word. He is lost in thoughts of the 11 other Players, scattered around the world, each with a meteor of their own. He wonders what they will be like, what lines they come from. For the lines do not know the other lines. They cannot know. Not until the Calling.

And the Calling is coming.

Will some be stronger than him? Smarter? Will one even be uglier?

Perhaps, but it is no matter.

Because Jago knows that he can, and will, kill them all.

 **Baitsakhan**

Gobi Desert, 222 km South of Ulaanbataar, Mongolia.

Baitsakhan wants it, and he's going to get it.

He rides hard south into the Gobi Desert with his twin cousins, Bat and Bold, both 12.5, and his brother, Jalair, 24.5.

Baitsakhan has been 13 for 7 days and is just eligible for Endgame. He is happy about this.

Very happy.

The meteor fell in the middle of the night two days ago in the vast central nothingness of the Mongolian steppe. A small group of old yak herders saw it, and they called it into Baitsakhan's grandfather Suhkbataar, who told them to leave it alone or they would be sorry. The herders listened. Everyone in the steppe knows to listen to Suhkbataar in strange matters like these.

Because of this, Baitsakhan knows that the space rock will be there, waiting, alone. But when they are about a half mile from the impact zone they see a small group of people, and a worn Toyota Hilux, sitting in the distance.

Baitsakhan reins his horse and slows it to a walk. The other riders pull alongside him. Jalair draws a brass telescope from a saddlebag and looks across the plain. He makes a low sound.

"Who are they?" Baitsakhan asks.

"Don't know," says Jalair. "One wears an ushanka. Another has a rifle. Semi-automatic. The truck has three external gas cans. One of the men is leaning on a long pry bar. Two are bending to the ground. The one with the rifle is going toward the Hilux."

Bat rests a longbow across his lap. Bold absently checks his smartphone. No signal, of course, not this far out. He opens Super Mario Run and starts a new game.

"Do they have the rock?" Baitsakhan asks.

"Hard to tell . . . wait. Yes. Two are carrying something small but heavy. It's wrapped in leather."

"Have they seen us?" Bat asks.

"Not yet," Jalair says.

"Let's introduce ourselves," Baitsakhan says.

Baitsakhan kicks his horse and it launches into a canter. The others follow. Each of the horses is light brown with a braided mane and black tail. Dust rises behind the beasts. The group around the meteorite notices them, but they don't show any alarm,

"When they draw very near, Baitsakhan reins his horse and, before it stops, jumps from the saddle. "Hello, friends!" he calls. "What have you found?"

"Why should we tell you?" the man with the pry bar says cockily. He has a low, raspy voice and a thick, excessively groomed moustache. Next to him is the man in the Russian hat. Between them on the ground is the leather-wrapped bundle.

"Because I asked," Baitsakhan answers politely.

Bat gets off his horse and begins to casually check his animal's shoes and hooves for rocks. Bold, still in the saddle. He gets his phone out and restarts Temple Run.

A short grizzled man with horribly pockmarked skin steps forward. "Forgive him. He's like that with everyone," he says.

"Shut up, Terbish," Pry Bar says.

"We think we found a shooting star," Terbish says, ignoring Pry Bar.

Baitsakhan leans toward the bundle. "Can we see it?"

"Yeah, not every day you get to see a meteorite," Jalair says from atop his horse.

"What's going on?" someone calls. It's the man returning from the Hilux. He's tall and casually holds a .30-06 at his side.

"These kids want to see the rock," Terbish says, studying Baitsakhan. "And I don't see why not."

"Cool!" Baitsakhan exclaims. "Jalair, check out this crater!"

"I see it."

Baitsakhan doesn't know, but this meteorite is the smallest of the 12. Less than 0.2112 meters. The smallest rock for the youngest Player.

"Terbish turns toward the bundle. "Altan, unwrap the thing."

The man in the ushanka bends and peels back the pony hide. Baitsakhan peers into it. The thing is a hunk of black metal the size of a small shoe box, pockmarked with glowing lattices of gold and verdigris ingots, like extraterrestrial stained glass.

Baitsakhan removes his hands from his pockets and drops to a knee. Terbish stands over him. Pry Bar sighs. The rifleman takes a few steps forward. Bat's horse whinnies as Bat adjusts the girth.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" Terbish says.

"Looks valuable," Baitsakhan says innocently.

Jalair points. "Is that gold?"

"I knew we shouldn't have shown it to them," Pry Bar says.

"Bubblegum?" Baitsakhan holds the pack of gum out for Terbish.

Rifleman frowns and moves the gun across his body, holding it with two hands.

Terbish shakes his head. "No thanks. We're going to be going now."

Baitsakhan pockets the gum. "Okay."

Jalair stands as Altan starts to rewrap the boulder.

"Don't bother," Jalair orders.

Pry Bar huffs. "You little shits seriously aren't trying to say you're taking this thing, are you?"

Baitsakhan blows a pink bubble. It bursts across his face and he gobbles it back into his mouth. "That's exactly what we're saying.

"Terbish draws a skinning knife from his belt and takes a step backwards. "I'm sorry, kid, but I don't think so. "We found it first."

"Some yak herders found it first."

"I don't see any yak herders around here," Pry Bar says.

"We told them to leave. And they know to listen. The rock belongs to us."

"He's being modest," Jalair adds. "It actually belongs to him."

"You?" Terbish asks doubtfully.

"Yes."

"Ha!" Pry Bar says, holding the rod-like a quarterstaff. "I've never heard anything so ridicu—"

Jalair cuts Pry Bar short by grabbing the rod, twisting it free, and slamming the pointed end into Pry Bar's sternum, knocking the wind out of him. Rifleman shoulders the .30-06, but before he can fire, an arrow strikes him cleanly through the neck.

They had forgotten about Bat behind his horse.

Altan, the man in the hat, gets his hands around the bundle, but Bold throws a black metal dart at him, about eight inches long and a half inch in diameter. It strikes Altan through the hat's earflap and drives a few inches into his head. He collapses and begins to foam at the mouth. His arms and legs dance. His eyes roll.

Terbish is full of terror and disbelief. He turns and sprints for the truck.

Baitsakhan blows a short whistle through his teeth. His horse trots next to him; he jumps on, kicks it in its side. It catches Terbish in seconds. Baitsakhan pulls hard, and the horse rears and comes down on Terbish's shoulders and neck. The man is crushed into the earth as the horse turns a tight circle first one way then the next, prancing over Terbish's body, crushing his bones, taking his fading life.

When Baitsakhan returns to the crater, Pry Bar is sitting on the ground, his legs in front of him, his nose bloody, his hands tied behind him. The rod is under his elbows, and Jalair is pulling up on it.

Baitsakhan jumps from his horse.

The man spits. "What did we ever do to—"

Baitsakhan puts his fingers to his lips. "Shh." He holds out his other hand, and Bat appears as if from nowhere and places a long and gleaming blade in it. "Don't talk."

"What are you doing?" the man pleads.

"Playing," Baitsakhan says.

"What? Why?" Pry Bar asks.

Baitsakhan puts the knife against the man's neck and slowly slices the man's throat open.

"This is Endgame," Baitsakhan says. "There is no why."

 **All 12 Players of all 12 lines receive the message.**

 **All 12 Players of all 12 lines will attend the Calling.**

 **The 12 Players of the 12 lines are:**

Omega Loxias Megalos- Minoan, 16.24 years

Chiyoko Takeda- Mu, 17.89 years

Sarah Alopay- Cahokian, 17.98 years

Alice Ulapala- Koori, 18.34 years

Aisling Kopp- La Tène, 19.94 years

Baitsakhan- Donghu, 13.02 years

Jago Tlaloc- Olmec, 19.14 years

An Liu- Shang, 17.86 years

Vijay Saxena- Harrapan, 17.47 years

Kala Mozami- Sumerian, 16.50 years

Maccabee Adlai- Nabataean, 16.42 years

Hilal ibn Isa al-Salt- Aksumite, 18.69 years


	2. III

**Aisling Kopp**

3rd-Class Bus Approaching Hanzhong, Shaanxi Province, China

Aisling tries to quite her mind. A feeling of anxiety has taken over every part of her consciousness, like a virus which refuses to let go of the host. Just doubling and doubling until there's nothing left of the host, the victim. Aisling cannot let that happen to her.

She tries to relinquish expectations, to take shelter in her breath, tries to see through her closed eyes.

Nothing works.

Aisling wants to be back at Central Park. She wants to sit on a picnic blanket, enjoying a caramel macchiato and the pleasant weather. She wants home. She wants her little doll. The only child that matters amongst millions. She wants her daughter, Alice.

Aisling is on a 3rd class bus, approaching the outskirts of the Shaanxi province. The coordinates on her meteorite lead to a place within Xi'an, within the Shaanxi province. The invitation said that the event would begin on 21st June and with the abundance of time in mind, her grandfather advised her to take, as indirect of a route as possible to Xi'an. Staying in a place is always a bad tactical decision, in enemy territory and moving around within Xi'an is enough to make her conspicuous because after all, she is a foreigner.

She still has 84 hours to kill. But she has found a way to do so.

Aisling generally wouldn't have travelled in such inhumane conditions. The bus is overcrowded, there is no air-conditioning and the air of China, even in the rural provinces is somewhat suffocating. But she is enduring because in front of her is another person, who doesn't belong in this foreign land. Definitely another Player. Aisling doesn't know her name yet, but she has been following this strange, aboriginal girl for four hours, from the Chengdu International Airport.

Yet her mind betrays her in this moment of need. How could this happen? Aisling has always had such rigorous control over her mind. While most other Players of Endgame have focused on their physical skills, Aisling has honed her mind like a blade, meditation her whetstone. Aisling's memory is close to perfect. Her mind drinks in details as thirstily as a man would drink water in the desert.

She senses pain. A passenger behind her starts crying. She says her stomach hurts. The lack of air-conditioning is aggravating the annoyance of most people in the bus as it is hot and getting hotter. The heat from the engine is washing through the bus, from the churning and belching engine that reeks of oil and gasoline and fire.

Aisling is sweating. Sweating from the heat. Sweating from the pressure building up in her mind. She wants to see her. Her daughter. Aisling is only 19. She would have turned 20 in 10 days and Endgame would have been someone else's problem. But it doesn't matter. She's a mother, and the fate of her child will not be in the hands of a stranger, albeit another member of her Line.

"Alice must be kept a secret," she thinks to herself. "The others cannot know." If not, Alice will compromise Aisling. Alice will compromise her because Aisling loves her. She has to live. Or there's no point in playing the game. Not for Aisling.

The woman in the back continues to wail, her pain getting worse. Others are yelling. She screams louder, pounds the glass of the window so hard it might break. Aisling turns to look and sees a throng of passengers hovering and gesturing wildly. They look like they are starting to worry. The driver is unfazed, keeps bumping along. Aisling sees a hand shoot up from behind a seat, a clenched fist. Someone is asking if there is a doctor on board.

Doctors do not ride 3rd-class buses.

The person asks for something else. Aisling understands a word: midwife. Is there a midwife on board?

Aisling is not a midwife, but she is a mother.

Calm.

Be calm.

There is a little mouth in there trying to live.

Aisling looks at the Aboriginal Player in front. She can see her mop of hair rising above the seat back. The Player looks to be asleep. In this heat, with the bouncing bus, and the screaming woman—Aisling is amazed that anyone could sleep. The Player's mind must not be as cluttered as her own. Aisling wishes she could sleep herself. The Player is not going anywhere. She is oblivious.

So Aisling will help.

She rises and walks down the crowded aisle. As she walks, she removes a small bottle of hand sanitizer from her fanny pack. She rubs a dollop in and around her fingers and palms.

"Excuse me," she says, switching to poor Mandarin and stashing the little bottle. The smell of rubbing alcohol is strangely refreshing.

A few people turn to her and shake their heads. She is not what they expected.

"I know I am young and a foreigner, but I can help," she says. "I have a child myself."

The remaining people step aside. The birthing woman is not a woman but a girl. Maybe 16 years old.

Like Aisling was once.

Except that Aisling didn't give birth on a sweltering bus. It was a lovely day, with Micheal, her lover, holding her hand. She wishes he could be here, or with Alice. She wishes that he's still alive, somewhere.

The baby is crowning. It is not long in arriving. It would be here already if something weren't wrong.

"May I help?" Aisling asks the girl.

The girl is scared. Blood vessels have popped across the bridge of her nose and over the rise of her cheeks. She nods.

Such pain.

Such sweat and tears, such fear.

Aisling is suddenly calm. For a moment she forgets about Alice, about the Player, about Endgame. Her head clears of the blasted anxiety.

"My name is Aisling."

"Lin."

"Breathe, Lin. I am going to put my hands here. After you breathe, I will feel. Don't push. Am I saying the right words? My Mandarin is not good."

"I understand. I won't push. You will feel."

"Right. Good. Now, one, two, three, big breath."

Lin fills her lungs and blows out her cheeks.

Aisling touches the girl's skin. It is hot, damp. She kneads the girl's abdomen. Aisling can feel the baby's arm. It is caught. The cord is wrapped around it. If the cord is short, the baby will die and possibly the mother too. If the cord is long enough, there is hope.

A man brings an armful of water bottles from a box at the front of the bus.

Aisling looks at him.

He is scared too.

He is not a man. A boy, 17, maybe 18.

The father.

She puts a hand on the boy's wrist. "Don't worry."

He nods quickly, nervously, doesn't even look at Aisling. He is locked on Lin. Lin is locked on Aisling.

Aisling has him open a bottle and pour the water over her hands to remove the alcohol. While doing this she looks Lin intently in the eye. "The cord is holding the arm. I have to try to free it."

Lin nods, her eyes full of fear.

Aisling searches the faces around her. And there, like an apparition appears the Aboriginal Player over the heads of the diminutive Chinese throng. They lock eyes for a tense moment.

"What's happening?" the Player asks. Her voice is casual- friendly, even.

Aisling is shocked. "Helping this girl," she replies in English. The other riders regard the Player like she is a giant from another world. In a sense, she is.

"We need to stop the bus," the Player says. Aisling hesitates. If they stop the bus, it will be easier for the Player to get away. But if they don't, this girl and her baby could die.

"What is your name?" Aisling asks.

"Alice. Alice Ulapala"

"Alice, please go ask the driver to stop."

"Will do, mate."

Alice turns. Aisling doesn't know what comes over her then. It's an impetuous feeling, but it somehow feels right. Even though she knows she should keep her family a secret, her instincts tell her that this is the right course of action. She shouts after Alice, "My daughter is also named Alice!"

Alice Ulapala freezes. Looks over her shoulder. Aisling can see the crescent-shaped birthmark like a waxing moon rising on the Player's darkened skin. She looks like she's trying to decide whether to trust this new information or not. Whether to trust Aisling.

"That so?"

"Yes," Aisling says desperately. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"That's all right mate. Kids are angels, they are. I hope you see yours soon, I really do."

"Thank you."

"No worries, mate." The Player continues down the bus and the peasants part for her like the Red Sea did for Moses.

Aisling watched Alice speak with the driver, and within a minute the ride has stopped. Everyone on board is now paying attention, some of them hopeful that Lin will be all right, others just annoyed at the delay.

Aisling looks at Lin. She forgets about Alice and Endgame and the Calling and Micheal and her Alice too. She is focused only on this task. Her mind is sharp and clear.

"This will hurt," she says to Lin in Mandarin. "But it will be over soon." One way or another it will all be over soon, Aisling thinks.

"Breathe!"

The girl inhales. Aisling reaches down and slides her hand over the baby's head and face. She can feel its heart beating, beating, beating. It's a strong baby. The girl screams. Fearing for Lin, the father reaches for Aisling, but a middle-aged man in round spectacles and a beaten canvas hat, holds the boy back. Two women gasp.

The girl screams some more.

Aisling can feel the cord. She probes and gets a finger under it, between the arm and the tube, and then another finger. The baby arcs its back and pushes its face into Aisling's wrist. She can feel both heartbeats now, the mother's and the child's, striking against each other. Aisling tries to slide the cord over the fingers. Lin is panting. Her legs start to quiver.

"Hold on, I have almost got it!"

A car passes on the road honking its horn; someone shouts from its open window.

Aisling glances over. Just across the shoulder, opposite the bus, is Alice Ulapala. She's looking directly at Aisling. She raises her hand to her forehead and snaps a respectful salute, then gets into the car. Aisling knows she should go after her. That she should go and Play.

But she can't.

She moves her finger. The cord slides down one centimetre. The heartbeats race each other. Aisling's own heartbeat joins the contest, galloping away like a thoroughbred.

Alice is gone.

Aisling is here.

Here she will stay.

The cord is squeezed and snags on Aisling's index finger. She lowers her shoulder.

Lin heaves, her breath is erratic, and her midsection is locked in a contraction.

"Breathe!"

The baby's heartbeat slows. Slows. Slows.

"Breathe! Breathe!"

Lin tries but the pain is unbearable.

Aisling gets lower and pinches the cord in the crook of her finger, forcing her knuckle uncomfortably into the girl's pelvis.

Lin begins to pass out.

"Pour water on her face!"

A woman does. Lin wakes. She's exhausted, can barely function.

Aisling is calm. It's strange to her. She holds a life—two lives—literally in her hands.

It's calm, peaceful.

I am playing, she realizes.

She's a Player and she is Playing.

The baby pushes against her wrist. Aisling works her hand around, and finally, the cord is free. Slowly she unhooks her finger and pulls out her hand. As she does, she feels the baby's heartbeat go up. Up and up.

"It's done."

The middle-aged man with the glasses and the canvas hat smiles at her and pours water over her hands. Aisling washes the blood and amniotic fluid onto the hard floor of the bus.

"Lin. Are you with me, Lin?" The girl nods weakly. "The baby is almost here. After the next—" Aisling doesn't know the word for contraction, so she mimes one by flexing her arms and stomach and wrenching her face. Lin understands. "After that, you breathe and push, breathe and push, breathe and push."

"Okay." She is still frightened.

They wait. Aisling offers her hand to hold. Lin takes it. Tries to smile. The father takes her other hand.

The contraction comes.

"Go!" Aisling lets go of the girl's hand and gets ready. "Go go go!"

Lin does as she's been told and does it again and again and it comes, it comes and it's crying.

"A boy! A boy! A boy!" people shout as they see. The news ricochets down and around the bus. The driver fires the engine back up, but an old lady hits him with a rolled newspaper and he turns it off.

Aisling holds the baby. Lin cries tears of everything—hope, joy, grief, pain. Aisling passes the baby to the beaming father. Someone hands him a scarf, and the baby is wrapped up. Aisling reaches in her fanny pack and pulls out a folding knife. She opens it and cuts the cord.

A throng pushes in on the new mother and father. Aisling steps back. Her heart is still going fast.

There is more than one way to Play Endgame.

She smiles.

And as she retreats to her seat, people make way for her. She's a hero. They give her space. She sits, silently thanks the other Player for being there. Something about her presence helped. And as the adrenaline from the birth starts to fade, she realizes the anxiety that was troubling her is gone.

In its place is a message.

The child is in your line now.

Win or he will die.

 **Sarah Alopay**

Gretchen's Goods Café and Bakery, Frontier Airlines Lobby, Eppley Airfield, Omaha, Nebraska, United States

Sarah sits with Christopher at a small plastic table, an untouched blueberry muffin between them. They hold hands, touch knees, and try to act like this isn't the strangest day of their young lives. Sarah's parents are 30 feet away at another table, watching their daughter warily. They are worried what she might say to Christopher, and what the boy—a boy they have always treated like a son—will do. Their actual son, Sarah's brother, Tate, is in a funeral home, awaiting cremation. Everyone keeps saying there will be time to grieve for Tate later, but that may not be true.

In 57 minutes Sarah is getting on a plane that will take her from Omaha to Denver, from Denver to San Francisco, from San Francisco to Seoul, from Seoul to Beijing.

She does not have a return ticket.

"So you have to leave to play this game?" Christopher asks for what feels to Sarah like the 17th time.

Sarah is patient. It isn't easy to understand her secret life. For a long time, she dreamed of telling Christopher about Endgame; she just never thought she would actually have to. But now she feels relieved to finally be honest with him. For this reason, it doesn't matter if he keeps asking the same questions over and over. These are her last moments with him, and she will treasure them even if he's being obstinate.

"Yes," Sarah replies. "Endgame. The world is not supposed to know about it, or about people like me."

"The Players."

"Yes, the Players. The councils. The secret lines of humanity . . ." She trails off.

"Why can't the world know?"

"Because no one would be able to live a normal life if they knew Endgame was hanging over them," Sarah says, feeling a pang of sadness for her own "normal life" that went up in smoke just days ago.

"You have a normal life," Christopher insists.

"No, I don't."

"Oh, right," Christopher says, rolling his eyes. "You have killed wolves and survived on your own in Alaska and are trained in all kinds of karate and crap. Because you are a Player. How did you ever manage to squeeze in soccer practice?"

"It was a pretty packed schedule," Sarah answers wryly. "Especially for the last three years, you know, because Tate was supposed to be the Player, not me."

"But he lost his eye."

"Exactly."

"How did he lose it, by the way? None of you ever told me that," Christopher says.

"It was a pain trial. Withstand the stings of a thousand bees. Unfortunately, one got him right in the pupil, and he had a bad reaction, and he lost the eye. The council declared him ineligible and said that I was in. Yeah, that definitely made my schedule a bit crazy."

Christopher stares at her like she's lost it. "You know, I would think this was a sick joke if your parents weren't here. If that meteor hadn't hit and Tate hadn't . . . Sorry, it's just a lot to take in."

"I know."

"You are basically in a death cult."

Sarah purses her lips, her patience slipping. She expected Christopher to be supportive; at least that's how it went when she imagined this conversation. "It's not a death cult. It's not something I chose to do. And I never wanted to lie to you, Christopher."

"Whatever," Christopher says, his eyes lighting up as if he's just come to a decision.

"How do I sign up?"

"For what?"

"Endgame. I want to be on your team."

Sarah smiles. It's a sweet thought. Sweet and impossible. "It's not like that. There aren't teams. The others—all eleven of them—won't be bringing teammates to the Calling."

"The others. Players, like you?"

"Yeah," Sarah says. "Descendants of the world's first civilizations, none of which exist anymore. Each of us represents a line of the world's population, and we play for the survival of that line."

"What's your line called?"

"Cahokian."

"So, like, Native American. I think there's a little Algonquian on my dad's side. Does that mean I'm part of your line?"

"It should," Sarah answers. "Most people in North America have some Cahokian blood, even if they don't realize it."

Christopher thumbs his chin. Sarah knows all of Christopher's tics, so she knows that this means he's about to make an argument, he's just not quite sure how to phrase it. There are 52 minutes left before her flight leaves. She waits patiently, although she's starting to worry that this is how they will spend their last hour together. She was hoping to give her parents the slip, find a secluded gate, and make out one last time.

"Okay," says Christopher, clearing his throat. "So you have got twelve ancient tribes abiding by these weird rules and waiting for some sign. And that's how you've chosen to interpret the meteor that, admittedly, is a pretty fucked-up and crazy coincidence. But what if that's what this is? Just a coincidence and you are like a hot, brainwashed, alleged killing machine only because of some dumb prophecy that doesn't really exist."

Christopher catches his breath. Sarah stares at him, smiling sadly.

"It's for real, Christopher."

"How do you know? I mean, is there some kind of commissioner who runs this game? Like the NFL?"

"Them."

Christopher dips his chin. "Them?"

"They have lots of names," Sarah says, not meaning to sound so cryptic. She's having trouble putting the next part into reasonable-sounding words.

"Give me one," Christopher says.

"Cahokians call them the Sky People."

"The Sky People?"

"Yes." Sarah holds up a hand before he can interrupt. "Listen—you know how every culture around the world believes that their god or gods or higher power or source of enlightenment, whatever you want to call it, comes from above?"

Christopher shrugs. "I guess. I don't know."

"They are right. God, or the gods, or the higher power, whatever and whoever it is, did come from above. They descended from the sky amid smoke and fire and created us and gave us rules to live by and left. All of the world's gods and myths are just variations of the same legends, variations of the same story, the same history."

Christopher shakes his head. "This is crazy. Like, Jesus-riding-a-dinosaur crazy."

"No, it isn't. It makes sense if you think about it."

"How?"

"It all happened so long ago that every culture adapted the story to fit their experience. But the core of it—that life came from above, that humanity was created by gods—that's true."

Christopher stares at her.

"Sky People. You mean like . . ." He shakes his head. "This is insane. What you are saying can't be real. It's the craziest thing I have ever heard! And you are crazy if you go."

"I'm sorry, Christopher. If I were in your shoes I would probably react the same way. Actually, probably way worse. You know me as Sarah Alopay, your girlfriend, but I'm also someone else, and even though Tate was supposed to be playing, I always have been someone else as well. I was raised, as were 300 generations of my people, to be a Player. Everything that just happened—the meteor, the piece that we found, my necklace becoming part of it, the message and the code—it was all exactly as foretold in our legends."

Sarah studies him, waiting for a reaction. Christopher's face has gone completely serious; he's no longer trying to talk her out of Endgame as if that tactic ever had a chance.

"Why now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did it have to start now?"

"I will probably be asking myself that question until I die, Christopher. I don't know the answer. I know what the legend says, but I don't know Their real reasons."

"What does the legend say?"

"It says Endgame will begin if the human race has shown that it doesn't deserve to be human. That it has wasted the enlightenment They gave to us. The legend also says that if we take Earth for granted, if we become too populous and strain this blessed planet, then Endgame will begin. It will begin in order to bring an end to what we are and restore order to Earth. Whatever the reason, what will be will be."

"Fucking Christ."

"Yeah."

"How do you win?" he asks in a low voice.

"No one knows. That's what I'm going to find out."

"In China."

"Yeah."

"And it's going to be dangerous?"

"Yes."

"You talked about choice in your speech—choose not to do it."

Sarah shakes her head. "No. It's what my parents were born to do, what my brother was born to do, what I was born to do. It is the responsibility of my people, and it has been since we appeared on this planet, and my choice is to do it."

Christopher has no words. He doesn't want her to leave. Doesn't want her to be in danger. Sarah is his girlfriend. His best friend. His partner in crime, the last person he thinks of before he falls asleep and the first person he thinks of when he wakes. She's the girl of his dreams, only she's real. The thought of someone trying to hurt her, it ties his stomach in knots. The idea that he'll be thousands of miles away when it happens makes it even worse.

"The stakes are dire, Christopher. You probably won't ever see me again. Mom and Dad, Omaha, Tate—I'm looking back on all of it already. I love you, I love you with everything in me, but we may never see each other again."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I may not come back."

"Why?"

"If I don't win, I will die."

"Die?"

"I will fight to stay alive, I promise I will. But yes. It could happen. Easily. Don't forget that I'm a backup. Tate was supposed to be here, not me. The other Players, they have probably been training since before they could walk."

They stare at each other. The sounds of the airport—the announcements of gate changes, the whispering wheels of rolling luggage, the squeaks of sneakers on polished granite floors—swirl around them.

"I'm not gonna let you die," Christopher says. "And if you have to win to stay alive, then I am coming with you. I don't give a shit about the rules."

Her heart drops to the floor. She knew saying goodbye wasn't going to be easy, but she didn't expect this. And in a way it makes her love him more. Kind, generous, strong, beautiful Christopher.

She shakes her head. "The Players have to go to the Calling alone, Christopher."

"Too bad for the others, then. Because I'm coming with you."

"Listen," she says, changing her tone. "You need to stop thinking of me as your girlfriend. Even if you could come, I wouldn't let you. I don't need your protection. And, honestly, you aren't up for it."

So much for finding a quiet gate where they can make out. Sarah knew it could come to this, that she might have to be harsh with him. She sees that her words hurt him, that his pride is wounded. She's sorry about that, but what she said is the truth.

Christopher shakes his head, persisting. "I don't care. I'm coming."

Sarah sighs. "I'm gonna stand up in a minute. If you try to follow me, they will stop you." Sarah tilts her head toward her parents.

"They can't stop me."

"You have no idea what they can do. The three of us, we could kill everyone in this terminal quickly and easily and escape, no problem."

Christopher snorts in disbelief. "Christ, Sarah. You wouldn't do that."

"Understand me, Christopher," Sarah says, leaning forward and gritting her teeth. "I will do whatever it takes to win. If I want you, my parents, everyone we know to survive, I have to do whatever it takes."

Christopher is silent. He glances at the Alopays, who are staring back at him. Simon is giving him a hard, cold look. It's unlike anything he's ever seen before. Christopher thought he knew these people. He was closer to them than his own family, and now Sarah sees Christopher's face change, notices the fear blossoming there, and worries that she's pushed too hard. She softens her tone. "If you want to help me, stay here and help the people who need it. Help my parents deal with Tate's death, and maybe mine. If I win, I will come back and find you, and we can live the rest of our lives together. I promise."

Christopher looks deep into Sarah's eyes. His voice shakes. "I love you, Sarah Alopay." She tries to smile but fails. "I love you," he repeats earnestly. "And I swear that I will never, ever stop loving you."

They stand at the same time and wrap their arms around each other. They kiss, and though they have shared many, many kisses, none of them has meant as much or felt as strong. Like all such kisses, it doesn't last long enough.

They pull apart. Sarah knows that this is probably the last time she will ever see him, speak to him, touch him.

"I love you too, Christopher Vanderkamp. I love you too."

 **Maccabee Adlai**

Aeroflot Flight 3501, Seat 4B

Depart: Warsaw

Arrive: Moscow

Maccabee Adlai, the Player of the 8th line, settles into the 1st-class cabin on Aeroflot 3501 from Warsaw to Moscow, which will take 93 minutes. In Moscow, he will make a connection for a flight to Beijing, which lasts 433 minutes. He is 16 years old but has the build of a decathlete 10 years his senior. He is six feet five inches tall, and he weighs 240 pounds. He has the facial stubble as well, one of those kids who never really looked like a kid. Even when he was seven, he was much taller and stronger than his peers.

He likes being taller and stronger than his peers.

It gives him advantages.

He removes the jacket of a three-button custom silk suit. He settles into his aisle seat. His French-cuffed shirt is powder blue and white gingham. His rose-patterned tie is held in place with a silver clip. His cufflinks are made of fossilized mammoth ivory. They are shaped like Tibetan skull beads and have ruby chips for eyes. On his left pinkie is a large brass ring inset with a drab tan stone carved in the shape of a flower.

Maccabee smells like lavender and honey. His black hair is wavy and full and slicked back. His forehead is broad and his skull is apparent as if his skin is almost too thin. His eyes are blue. His nose is narrow but large with a hook in the bridge.

It has been broken five times.

He likes fighting. So what? When you are Maccabee's size, fights have a tendency to find you. People want to see how they measure up. In Maccabee's case, they always come up short.

His only bag—a leather monogrammed shoulder satchel—is in the overhead compartment. He expects other Players to be burdened with packs and suitcases and all kinds of expectations. Maccabee doesn't like to be burdened. He prefers to be nimble, fast, to be able to move and strike at will. Plus, the world has not ended yet. Until it does, money will suffice.

Lots of money.

He fastens his seat belt and turns on a smartphone and listens to a recorded message. He has listened to the message dozens of times:

 **NASA/ESA/ISRO Joint press release, 15 June**

At 22:03 GMT on 11 June a large and previously undetected Near Earth Asteroid (NEA), since designated CK46B passed within 500,000 miles of Earth. Accompanying this parent NEA were several hundred children of varying magnitudes. At least 100 of these objects are confirmed to have been drawn into Earth's gravitational field. Like most "shooting stars," the majority of these burned up in the atmosphere, leaving nothing but visual evidence of their descent and demise. However, as worldwide press coverage has well documented, at least 12 bolides did survive the rigours of atmospheric entry.

While the sudden appearance of an NEA as large as CK46B is disturbing, it is the purpose of this release to assuage fears of a larger impact in the future. Impacts like these—especially like those that occurred in Warsaw, Poland; New Delhi, India; Addis Ababa, Ethiopia; and Forest Hills, Queens, New York, USA—are exceedingly rare. Through joint efforts of our agencies, plus those of the ISA, JAXA, UKSA, and AEB, you can be assured that other NEAs and Near Earth Objects (NEOs) are identified and tracked on a regular basis and that at this time it is our consensus opinion that our planet is in no danger whatsoever of being struck by anything larger than the meteorites mentioned above.

Finally, it is also our opinion that the shower propagated by CK46B is complete and that no additional meteors can be expected. CK46B has been charted and it is not due to reappear in our vicinity for another 403.56 years. For now, the possible danger posed by this NEA is considered past. Any further information—

"Excuse me," a man says in Polish as he knocks into Maccabee, yanking the cord of his headphones from his ears.

"I should say so," Maccabee says in perfect English with equal parts confidence and annoyance.

"You speak the English?" the man asks, also in English, dropping heavily into his window seat. He is 40 or so, sweating, overweight.

"Yes," Maccabee says. He glances across the aisle. A very pretty woman in a form-fitting dark suit rolls her green bespectacled eyes. Maccabee returns the gesture.

"Then I will speak the English too," the man announces. "I will practice. Yes? Onto you?"

"Practice with me," Maccabee corrects, winding the cord of his headphones around his hand.

"Yes. With you." The man manages to shove his valise under the seat in front of him. He struggles to find his seat belt, pulling hard at the buckled end, which does not move.

"You have to let out the buckle. Like this." Maccabee unfastens his seat belt and shows the man how it works.

"Ah, how silly of me," the man says in Polish.

"They should do away with them, in my opinion," Maccabee says, still speaking English and clicking his back together. "If the plane crashes, this is not going to help anyone."

"I agree," the pretty woman says in English, her eyes remaining on the magazine she's browsing.

The man leans past Maccabee, eyes the woman. "Aha. There hello." He's back to English.

Maccabee leans forward to intercept the man's prying eyes. "It's 'Hello, there.' And she wasn't talking to you."

The man recoils. "Gentle, young one. She is the pretty woman. She knows it. I just let her know I know it too. What is wrong by that?"

"It's rude."

The man waves his hand dismissively. "Ah! Rude! A good English word! I like. It is meaning 'not nice,' no? What is it . . . 'unpolite'?"

"Impolite," the woman answers. "It's okay. I have had worse."

"There. See? You have the nice suit, but me, I have the . . . the . . . experience."

This last word is in Polish.

"Experience," Maccabee translates.

The man jabs a finger into Maccabee's shoulder. "Yes, experience."

Maccabee looks at the man's finger, still pushed into his shoulder. Maccabee is being underestimated, which is the way he likes it. "Don't do that," Maccabee says calmly.

The man jabs him again. "What, this?"

As Maccabee prepares to respond, a flight attendant appears and asks in Polish, "Is there anything wrong?"

"Ah, another one," the man says, his eyes just as greedy for the attendant. She is also pretty. "Yes, there is something wrong, as a matter of fact." The man animatedly drops his tray table in front of him and taps it. "I haven't got my drink yet."

The attendant joins her hands in front of her. "What would you like, Mr Duda?"

The woman across the aisle chuckles at the appropriateness of his name—which usually means "booby"—but Duda doesn't hear.

"Two champagnes and two Stolichnayas. All in sealed bottles. Two glasses. No ice."

The attendant doesn't even bristle. She works for Aeroflot and has seen her share of drunks. She nods at Maccabee. "And for you, Mr Adlai?"

"Orange juice, please. In a glass, with ice."

"Adlai, hm? You a Jew?" Duda asks in Polish.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Maccabee says, turning in his seat.

"Figures. Explains all the finery." Duda's eyes dart up and down Maccabee's shirt.

"Also explains the scent you exude." Duda is staying with Polish, probably for the same reason, Maccabee chooses English.

The attendant returns and bends over, holding a tray, and gravity and pressure part the divide of her collared shirt.

Maccabee takes his orange juice as Duda winks, grabs his drinks, and whispers,

"Bend over a little more next time and I will give you a nice tip."

The attendant smiles and straightens. "We don't accept tips, Mr Duda."

"Pity," Duda says, as he cracks the two Stolichnayas and pours one into each glass.

She turns and walks away.

Duda leans forward and reaches over Maccabee. "How about you?" he asks the woman across from them. "Would you accept a tip from me in exchange for services?"

"That's enough," Maccabee says, as his heart starts to beat faster, moving from a resting rate of 51 to a heightened rate of 87. "If you speak again, you will regret it."

Duda downs one of the vodkas and says quietly so only they can hear, "Oh, little boy. I see you dressed like a man, but you don't fool me."

Maccabee takes a deep breath and slows his heart rate, as he has been trained to do. Killing, if it becomes necessary, is best done in a calm manner, and with smooth, easy movements. He did it for the first time at age 10 and has done it 44 more times in the years since.

The man leans into his seat, drinks the other vodka and both champagnes. He rolls toward the window and closes his eyes.

The plane taxis; takes off, reaches cruising altitude. The pretty woman minds her business. And for a while, Maccabee does too.

After about an hour, though, he leans across the aisle and says in English, "I'm sorry about all that, Miss . . ."

She smiles. "Miss Pawlek." He can tell that she thinks he is at least 22 or 23. Most people do, especially young women.

"Miss Pawlek."

"Why should you be sorry? You behaved perfectly."

"I wanted to punch him."

"We are on a plane. You can't."

They start to talk. Maccabee quickly realizes that she is tired of talking about the meteorite that has scarred Warsaw, or the 11 others that have rattled the world. It's all anyone has been able to talk or think about for the past four days, so he lets it lie.

Instead, Maccabee practices a subtle form of interrogation on her. He has been trained to use techniques that reveal sensitive information from people without their knowing. She is from Goleniów, a medieval capital near the German border. She works for an internet investing firm. She is meeting a client in Moscow. Her mother is dead. Her brother is an accountant in Krakow. She likes Italian opera and watches the Tour de France every year on TV. She has been to L'Alpe d'Huez. She has been in love once when she was 19, and hopes, she says with a smile, to fall in love again.

Maccabee doesn't say anything truthful about himself, except that he is on a business trip that will take him all the way to Beijing. Miss Pawlek has never been there. One day she would like to go.

They order a round of drinks, Maccabee opting for a ginger ale. As they toast, they don't realize that Duda is awake and watching them.

"Moving in on my action, eh?" he announces without lifting his head from his pillow. Duda points at Miss Pawlek, amused. "You should leave this boy alone. Women like you need a real man."

"You are a pig," she replies with a sneer.

"That's not what you are going to be saying later," Duda says, smiling.

The plane jerks. It is flying at 31,565 feet. The wind is coming from the north-northwest at 221 mph. The fasten seat belt light comes on. It's rough enough that 167 of the 176 passengers grip their armrests, 140 of them look at the person next to them for reassurance. Eighteen start to praying silently. The meteorite has put the idea of horrific, sudden death at the front of everyone's mind.

Maccabee doesn't mind the turbulence. To quote one of his favourite books: Fear is the mind-killer. He has practised besting fear over and over and over again. He has practised being cold and calculated and efficient. And while Duda is essentially harmless, it never hurts to continue to practice.

He leans close to Duda, pushing a small button on the palm side of his pinkie ring, revealing a short silver needle in the centre of the stone flower.

"If you speak to me again, or to anyone on this flight—"

The plane jumps again. The wind speed has increased to 231 mph. More passengers whimper in fear; more begin to pray.

"Don't threaten me, you little—" Duda says, but Maccabee, with his heart rate back at 51, and quickly enough so that no one sees, strikes the exposed flesh of Duda's neck with the needle.

"What did you . . ." Duda says.

"You should have listened," Maccabee says quietly, coldly, with a smile. Duda knows what's happened but is unsure if it's sleep or death that's coming for him.

Duda cannot speak to ask.

Duda can no longer move.

Duda's eyes fill with confusion and terror.

The plane slides hard from side to side. The wind is gusting faster. People are not quiet about their praying now. They are calling out to God. Maccabee lets his heart rate rise.

A baby in coach class starts crying.

As Duda's eyes roll into his head, Maccabee props a pillow against the window and pushes Duda into it. He runs his fingers over Duda's eyelids. He puts the man's hands in his lap, one over the other.

Maccabee settles back into his seat. He has met so many strange people in his life. He wonders who he will meet when he arrives in China.

Six minutes later the turbulence ends. Miss Pawlek looks over at him, smiles. Her brow glistens with a nervous sweat; her cheeks are flushed. Maccabee likes the way she looks in that moment: the relief mixed with something else.

Miss Pawlek inclines her head at Duda. "What happened to our friend?"

"Closed his eyes and went to sleep," Maccabee answers. "Some people can sleep through anything."

She nods. The green of her irises is captivating. "That was pretty rough turbulence, wasn't it?"

Maccabee turns his head from her, looks at the back of the seat in front of him.

"Yes, it was. But it's over now."

 **An Liu**

Liu Residence, Unregistered Belowground Property, Tongyuanzhen, Gaoling County, Xi'an, China

An Liu has a disadvantage, and he is ashamed.

Blinkblink.

A tic.

BlinkSHIVER.

SHIVERSHIVER.

But An Liu has advantages too:

1\. The Players are coming to Xi'an, China.

2\. An Liu lives in Xi'an, China.

BlinkSHIVER.

SHIVERblink.

3\. Therefore, he has the initial home-court advantage.

4\. An is a world-class hacker.

5\. An is an expert bomb maker.

BlinkSHIVERblinkblink.

Blinkblink.

BlinkblinkSHIVER.

6\. An knows how to find people.

After decoding the message, An continuously hacked passenger manifests at airports close to the other impact zones, filtering results for age, ticket-purchase date, date of visa issuance, and blink-blink-blink assuming there would be a more-or-less even distribution of gender.

ShiverBLINK.

He figures that shiver-blink the Players near the Mongolian and Australian impact

zones, on account of their remoteness, will be tricky, so he abandons them. The Mongolian will be coming overland blink anyway, and the Aussie will also probably start his or her journey blink by jeep or possibly chartered aircraft. Instant dead ends.

He also discounts Addis Ababa, Istanbul, Warsaw, New Delhi and New York, on account of these being shiver-shiver-SHIVER rather populous. He concentrates on Juliaca, Omaha, Naha, and Al Ain. These smaller markets make the hacking and filtering easier.

Initial results provide 451 candidates. These are cross-referenced with train and/or plane ticket purchases for transport within China. An blink is blink not blink hopeful.

Blinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblinkblink.

Had it been necessary for him to travel to reach the Calling, he would have taken the obvious precaution of using aliases, forged visas, and at least two passports, but he knows that not all people are as paranoid as he is. Even Players.

And lo. Shiver. He gets a hit: Sarah Alopay.

SHIVERblinkblink.

Blinkblink.

Blink.

 **Vijay Saxena**

Underground Harappan Base, Malcha Wildlife Reserve, New Delhi, India

Vijay steps back; kicking sand into the air as he does, maintaining a steady footing and steeling himself. He breathes heavily, exhausted and sore from the fight. He raises his fists and makes himself small, in anticipation of his opponent's strike. The floodlights around them provide a dim light in the underground arena. He depends on the shadows and the shuffling of sand to sense his enemy's position. A slight thud, nearly 3-and-a-half feet away gives her away. He doesn't hear a second thud, but only a slight whistle.

In the split second, he has, he twists 5 degrees and raises his right arm over his head. His arm blocks a dangerous kick to his head, but he doesn't stop. His opponent is still recovering from the expensive attack manoeuvre and he needs to make the most of this moment. Sensing the proximity of the attacker, he twists around his position and lashes out with his left leg, in a backward kick. He hears his opponent cough heavily as she stumbles on the sand- an abdominal hit. Her shadow grows large quickly. Vijay realizes that she is on both her feet, but not entirely grounded. One decisive move, to end the fight.

Vijay bends and lunges at his opponent, both his hands outstretched. Hoping to catch her in the stomach once more and push her down. But she knows his tact, and side-steps, grabbing his left arm, while his own momentum grounds him. He thrashes desperately as his opponent places a knee on his back and twists his arm upward, painfully. Vijay uses his other arm to push against the ground, to turn away and strike, but she keeps him pinned. Unable to find a way out of this position. He taps the ground three times, signaling his surrender. The weight lifts and he is able to move again.

As Vijay sits up and is faced by his opponent. The floodlights glow more intensely, lighting up the arena. A tall woman with long hair and a slender frame sits across cross-legged, in front of him. Her hands are on her knees, with her palms facing upward. Her meditative person shadows any trace of the stress of the fight.

"You fought well, to begin with, young one," she says in an even tone.

"Not well enough, Acharya," panted Vijay.

"You have mastered the technique of the fight, but not your breath," she says. "You must maintain control over your prana, your energy. Without it, you cannot attack or defend."

"Yes, Acharya."

"Be conscious of your breathing and your heart. You cannot let your body, betray you."

"Yes, Acharya."

"That is all the teaching, I have to impart to you before you leave, young one. If only we had more time-"

"Thank you, Acharya," Vijay mumbles.

She smiles. But it's not a sincere smile, rather a painful one.

"You look exhausted, young one," she says.

"I haven't been able to sleep," Vijay replies.

"What keeps you awake?"

Vijay thinks for a moment. After drawing a sharp breath, he says, "Whenever I am awake, I keep myself occupied." Vijay's breathing gets heavier as he speaks. "I read, and watched the world as the events of the past two days unfolded. But while my senses remain busy, my mind always asks, what is going to happen in the game. It's a game I have never played before. How do I win a game, I know nothing about? All 12 of us, must head to Xi'an, China for the first step. But by going blindly, am I not putting myself and the Line at risk?"

He pauses and takes a deep breath in, reigning in his racing heart.

"And what about when you are asleep?" the Acharya asks.

"I hardly sleep, Acharya," he begins. His voice carries a tone of helplessness. "I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, just thinking about the same questions. And when my eyes finally close. All I can do is watch, smell and hear the-"

His voice cracks and he's unable to continue speaking. His teacher understands and nods, sadly.

"This is fear," she explains. "Fear of the unknown and fear of failure. It will make you cautious and that's a good thing. Recognize it, acknowledge it and befriend it, for it is your ally. But don't be frozen by it. All things will be made clear, in time. As for playing-" she pauses.

"Remember, play the game your way," says the Acharya thoughtfully.

Vijay nods.

"But your sleep, that's a deeper problem," she continues, her eyes closed in peaceful meditation. "It is a problem of the way you are thinking."

Vijay feels confused. "Forgive me, Acharya. I don't understand."

"Why do we, the 12, prepare for Endgame?" she asks.

"To ensure the survival of our Line and every descendant of it," he replies.

"Amazing. Every word in that sentence was wrong," she replies, dismissively. Vijay lowers his gaze and awaits her response. "We prepare for Endgame, not to ensure survival. We prepare for Endgame, for peace."

"Peace?" asks Vijay, with disbelief. How can something this destructive, have any connection to peace, he thinks.

"Before there can be peace, there must be war. After war, peace follows. Regeneration follows. Growth follows. All things live. All things die. You mustn't play this game, with the goal of preventing the despair of the past, but the hope of ushering a better future. For all of us."

Vijay nods. He thinks he understands trying to change his point of view of the Endgame. Realising that it would take time, he decides to put that on top of the things that need his attention.

"You carry a heavy burden, young one," says the Acharya. "All I can do to help you with it is give you knowledge. And this-" she says pulling something from behind her and offering it to him

Vijay holds both his hands out, curious about the object he is receiving. It's a kukri, in a leather sheath. Its handle is made of bone but covered with thin layers of yak hide. The handle fits comfortably in his hand. He removes the kukri from the sheath, to reveal a glistening blade. It feels balanced, and precise, but sturdy and capable of serrating through though things, with ease.

"This blade was my father's and his father's before him," says the Acharya. "It is tradition to pass this down to the eldest child and since you are that child of this Line, it's fitting that it goes to you."

"Acharya, I am honoured," says Vijay as he stops admiring the blade and looks up at his teacher. "Thank you." Vijay sits on his knees and bends his head at his Acharya's feet, touching them. She raises her hands, silently blessing him.

"Go now, young one. Your time has come."

Vijay stands up with his head bowed down. He turns and walks towards a catacomb of dark tunnels travelling west, from the arena to east. He passes several other subterranean rooms, such as armouries, control rooms for utilities and dormitories until he finds his room. A digital watch on his bedside reads 1709 and 38°. He strips down quickly and enters his shower, cleaning himself off the sand and sweat from his training. Even under hot water, his neck is chilly without a scarf covering it, but

Vijay allows the feeling to persist. He uses it to concentrate.

Vijay is out in five minutes. As soon as he opens the door, he sees a familiar face, sitting on his bed. He's about the same height, of much darker skin and has worn a suit.

"You could have knocked," says Vijay.

"What's the point in wasting the breath-" he says in a pronounced British accent, "when the outcome is the same?"

"It's polite," replies Vijay, pulling a fresh scarf out of a drawer. He is changed into a white t-shirt and black jeans. "But you might have forgotten," he says wrapping the scarf around his neck. "After so long in English lands."

"I haven't forgotten anything, except how damnably hot, this place was."

Vijay smiles. "Welcome back, Anirudh."

Anirudh smiles back. "Thank you, mate. I wish it could have been under better circumstances."

Vijay looks at the hoodie hanging by his door. It is still blood-stained and full of ash and dust.

"Firstly, how do you wear that in this heat?" asks Anirudh. Vijay just shrugs.

"Secondly, I have something much better, waiting on sub-level 5."

"I don't have clearance for that," says Vijay.

"Now you do," replies Anirudh, getting up and out of the room. Vijay follows him through several tunnels until they reach an elevator. As he steps in, Anirudh places his thumb on a biometric scanner emitting red light. As it turns green, Anirudh presses the button to sub-level 5 and the door closes.

The alight at an air-conditioned and a well-lit tunnel. Tubelights run across the length of it, and Vijay shivers from the sudden change in temperature. They pass through several rooms, predominantly constructed of metal and plexiglass. Each room they pass has some sort of display; full of tools, weapons, armour and the like. Vijay realizes this is the main armoury, or a research and development wing, or both.

"How many people know about this place?" asks Vijay.

"Mostly intelligence personnel," replies Anirudh.

"I thought intelligence was kept out of the Capital Region?"

"This is a contingency," Anirudh says opening a door at the end of the tunnel. Vijay walks in and sees the faint reflection from a rectangular aluminium table in the centre. Anirudh steps in and flicks a switch, causing another series of tube lights to illuminate the room in white light. It's a pristine lab, with several workstations around the aluminium table and a computer-terminal at the end of the room.

"Welcome to my office," says Anirudh.

"Permanent posting?" asks Vijay.

Anirudh shrugs, removing his jacket and leading the way to the table.

"I will most likely be moved again, after this," he says motioning to the objects on the aluminium table. "They send me to a place, expect me to learn how something's made and recreate it back at base."

"Sounds fun," says Vijay.

"In a way it is. Especially when some agencies realise you are an agent." Anirudh smiles and reaches under the table and pulls out a backpack. He passes it across to Vijay. It's one of those, Anti-theft backpacks, with the reverse zipper. Its space-grey and black colour combination gives it an inconspicuous look. Vijay opens it up. The back of it opens up entirely, revealing pockets a large space, with neatly organized pockets for different purposes. The back of it is the thinnest layer, still capable of holding a laptop and two thin notebooks. It's been designed artfully, unlike a regular backpack.

So it's like your standard backpack," says Anirudh, motioning at the laptop pockets, and the bottle holders. But, the main compartment is bigger, so you can carry more. Also, I added these belts," he says pointing at some extendable velcro. "To stow anything fragile."

"Very nice," says Vijay with a nod of approval.

"That was nothing, just aesthetic shit. The real prize is this-" Anirudh says banging a nail on the exterior of the bag. "Concealed Kevlar-" Vijay whistles admirably. "Your back will always be protected."

"Thanks," says Vijay gratuitously, examining the bag.

"No problem. It's new technology and it withstood a whole magazine from an M16, but no punctures. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for snipers. If you come in contact with anything greater than a .308, this won't help."

"Got it," Vijay looks under the bag to see another a thick thread. He points at it. Anirudh motions a go-ahead. Vijay pulls at it and another compartment springs open.

"This is for the-" Anirudh tries to think of the right word. "Questionable stuff you might be carrying." Vijay notices, there's just enough space for a handgun and something thin, but long.

"How certain are you that stuff in here is undetectable?"

"The compartment is layered with a sheet of lead on all sides. I have tested it multiple times. So I am not uncertain."

It will be safe to carry the kukri, and perhaps a gun. Going armed is possibly a good idea, Vijay thinks to himself. Anirudh has kept the bag on the table and now brought over a metal tray. On the tray are new 13-inch MacBook, a DSLR and an iPod classic.

"The MacBook is well- just a MacBook. I thought it might come in handy. I removed the flaws in security, so it's secure too. Or as secure as it gets." Anirudh opens the laptop to show Vijay it's modified features. "The control panel, allows you to access the other devices, and shows you the major shortcuts that you might need if you are in a hurry." Vijay reads through the short-list of shortcuts. Full reset, Emergency SOS, self-destruct.

Anirudh moves on to the DSLR. "I am especially proud of this one. It's a normal Canon T6i. It's a good camera, but with a little extra. Here, take a look."

Vijay takes a camera and put his eye in the viewfinder. Instead of seeing Anirudh normally, all he sees is a large blemish of red in humanoid form, surrounded by blue. Thermal imaging. He switches the mode and finds night-vision. It doesn't work; because the lab is well-lit, but Vijay assumes it will when needed. to go back to the normal view and sees Anirudh with clarity.

"Neat," says Vijay.

"That's not all. Here-" Anirudh clicks a button on the camera, and aims it away from both of them. A very intense light emits from the camera. Even though both of them were looking away, their eyes are still hit by an intense flash, to which their pupils try to adjust.

"Concussive flash-" Anirudh rubs his eyes roughly. "Sorry, it will get better. It should make a person blind for at least 3 minutes, in some cases, subjects became unconscious or suffer prolonged blindness for short periods of time, but that was under a very direct exposure."

"Impressive," says Vijay, recovering quickly.

"Yes," he replies, removing a packet of gum from his pocket.

"Here," Anirudh hands him the packet.

"What's this?"

"Just a packet of gum, or-" Anirudh pops a strip in his mouth and chews for 10 seconds. He then takes it out and places it on a nearby metal tray. A few seconds later, there's a hole in the tray and the table beneath it.

"This thing will burn through any metal and synthetic fibre surface. Handcuffs, zip ties, no problem."

"Human skin?" asks Vijay worried.

"If it's organic, it won't react."

Vijay pockets the rest of the packet as Anirudh suddenly brings up a white hoodie, out from under the aluminium table.

"Thanks," says Vijay. "I was fresh out of white hoodies."

"Well, this one's better. Lined with Kevlar, so you are protected without the bag. It's also mixed with memory foam, so it will match your posture and become in sync with your movements. It's more flexible that way. It will protect you from a knife, on any angle. Like the bag, this will have similar protection against guns. Try not to get shot too much. I couldn't make it impact resistant. And definitely, don't rely on it protecting your head. The blunt force will still kill you."

"Noted."

"Also-" Anirudh is suddenly holding a can of paint in another hand and he topples it onto the hoodie.

"Aniru-" says Vijay in protest, but Anirudh then pours water on the ruined hoodie

and it suddenly becomes white again.

"Whoa." Vijay touches the wet fabric in disbelief. It still feels like normal cotton, but no evidence of it being wet from the water or stained from the paint remain.

"These are synthetic micro-fibres," Anirudh says. "Nothing sticks to them, permanently. So don't worry about having to abandon it. Just find some water and job done."

"This is all, very nice. Did you make all this?" Vijay asks.

"Yeah. Since Chanakya approached me, I have been on weapons development."

"In the UK?"

"Sometimes other places," Anirudh thought for a second. "A lot of times, other places. But, I got most of my training within England."

"Why not just do it here?"

"Do what?"

"Weapons development," answered Vijay.

"Oh. Countries like it, when other countries buy things, especially weapons. So this provides the illusion that weapons are being imported when the whole operation is being conducted covertly, ourselves. Makes it easier to negotiate in a diplomatic setting."

Vijay nods at the logic. It's something only Chanakya would have thought of. The genius, in the shadows. But Vijay cares for only one genius at that moment and that is his friend. He proceeds to bag all the contents in his new bag. He's excited. He never thought he would feel excited about Endgame, but now he is confident, that he is a step ahead. Equipped by a genius friend. He notices the iPod still on the tray...

"Hey, what's that for?" he asks. Anirudh looks up, from his terminal.

"Shit, totally forgot-" he says running up. "That is just an iPod, programmed to be a distress beacon. Just click on the Menu button 5 times and we will know where you are, anywhere on Earth. Then we will get you."

"That's it?" asks Vijay, expecting more.

"Yeah, and music for the trip. I thought you might appreciate it," says Anirudh.

"Oh, I do. Thank you, for all this."

"Chanakya also sent you a gift, but the Chakravartin reserved the right to give it to you. Here's your flight ticket, to Xi'an. It leaves in 6 hours."

Anirudh gives Vijay the piece of paper, fresh out of the printer. Still warm. Vijay nods.

"Come with us, to Chandni Chowk," says Anirudh.

"Us?" asks Vijay.

"Sathvik and some of the old gang. We will drop you, at the airport afterwards, you won't be late."

"I don't know, Anirudh," protests Vijay. He wants to go, but he can't imagine thinking of anything but the game.

"Come on. For old times sake." Vijay considers it. He still needs to fill 3 hours before he has to get to the airport. So he might as well. He nods with approval.

"Okay," smiles Anirudh. "We will wait at the main entrance. See you."

Vijay left sub-level 5, for the main tunnels where his room is located. He puts an extra set of clothes and the hoodie inside the backpack and opens the underside compartment to stow his kukri. He flips his mattress and grabs his wallet and passport. Finally, he grabs his iPhone and its charger, putting everything either in his pockets or in the bag. He takes a moment to organize everything neatly, inside the new backpack. When he's done, Vijay takes one last look of his room, switches of the lights and closes the door. He knows he's never coming back here.

Vijay makes one last stop to an armoury, near the training arena. He tells the armourer, what he wants and waits. A few moments later, the armourer returns with a Glock 17; two fully loaded magazines, a suppressor and large notebook. Vijay signs his name, on the most recent column and takes the gun in his hand. He loads a magazine into the Glock, hearing the click that signifies, one in the chamber. He ensures the safety is on and places the gun and the extra magazine with the suppresor, in the underside compartment of his backpack. He looks up at the armourer and extends his hand.

"Good luck," says the armourer, shaking Vijay's hand.

"Thanks."

Vijay has one more place to go before he can leave. He walks into the fulcrum, of where all the tunnels meet. Finally, he enters a large airconditioned auditorium, which is perfectly circular. Each step, deeper into the auditorium is a stair, forming a staircase of concentric circles. All the way up the stairs, is a seat, with no backrest. It is just a granite pedestal, upon which a large man sits. He is a giant, at least 7-feet tall, with broad shoulders and a strong build. He sits cross-legged in silent meditation, facing eastward. Yellow light illuminates him, and like a candle, his white clothes glow yellow on the black pedestal. The yellow light also brings attention to his neck, which glistens a deep-sea shade of blue. He is the Chakravartin.

Vijay approaches slowly and kneels halfway up the stairs.

"Rise, son," says the Chakravartin.

"Father," Vijay says. He looks up at the giant. The Chakravartin motions at him, to come up the stairs. Vijay walks up, slowly.

The Chakravartin takes a good look at Vijay. "I wonder, what grievous sin I have committed in this life, to have my family taken away so cruelly, from me." A tear falls down the side of his face.

"I am still here, father," says Vijay. "I am still alive."

The Chakravartin gets up, towering over Vijay. He bends and hugs his son. Vijay does too. Vijay feels pain. He feels his father's weight. Not physical weight, but the weight of greatness, shattered by the loss of his eldest son. His heir. His only daughter and perhaps the greatest Player in the Harappan line. And the love of his life. Vijay's mother. He feels his father, drowning in sorrow.

And he can't do anything about it.

"Have faith in yourself, Vijay," says his father, breaking the embrace to look at him.

"Trust what you have learned. Trust what you will learn."

"Yes, father."

"Here," he says, handing Vijay a large, black leather wallet. It has a new passport, some cash in different currencies and a few credit cards. The passport is Singaporean, one of the best passports to have, for easier immigration. It's also one of the hardest to procure. This is Chanakya's gift.

"Don't worry about spending too much," says the Chakravartin. "Endgame is more important than money."

"Okay, I should give you this then," says Vijay reaching for his previous passport. As he does, he hears a familiar sound of anklets jingling as they walk up the stairs. He looked below to see the priestess, kneeling in front of the Chakravartin. She is carrying a ceremonial plate; upon which is a small curved knife, a silver coin, a small sweet and an oil-lamp.

"Rise, Rekha," says the Chakravartin. The priestess rises and looks at Vijay for a brief moment. She then looks at the ground, at the Chakravartin's feet.

She proceeds to rise to the level of the Chakravartin's pedestal.

"Vijay, I would like to introduce Rekha D'Souza. One of the temple's best apprentices, from..."

"Rakhigarhi," completes Vijay. "We have met." Vijay's curiosity about this priestess piques, contemplating the meaning of her name. A Hindu name, with a Christian surname. She has an interesting story, he thinks. His father nods and turns to Rekha.

"Chakravartin, if you will allow me," says Rekha. "I would like to begin before the auspicious time passes."

"Begin," says the Chakravartin, beginning an ancient Hindu tradition, the marking of the Tilak. Rekha stands directly in front of Vijay and rotates the plate clockwise 7 times. The Chakravartin takes the knife and cuts his thumb, dripping blood onto the plate. Rekha waits until enough is collected, then uses her thumb to dip into the Chakravartin's blood. Vijay bends slightly, his right hand hugging his temple as Rekha draws a line of blood, from just above the gap of his eyebrows.

Rekha takes a step back. Vijay faces his father, and bends down, touching both hands on his feet. The ultimate symbol of respect.

"Vijayi bhava," says his father, blessing him. It means, 'May you be Victorious.'

Vijay rises. His father feeds him a bite of the sweet. To conclude the ceremony, Vijay extends both his arms out, his right palm over his left. His father places the silver coin in the centre and rolls his fingers. The ceremony ends.

Vijay safely stows the silver coin in his wallet. He turns to see Rekha, cleaning the tray.

"Thank you," he says to her.

"You will be in my prayers, Neelkanth," she says before bowing to the Chakravartin and swiftly exiting the auditorium. Vijay watches her as she leaves, recalling the night before, when they first met. A night of celebration and tragedy. Perhaps for a moment too long. He only realises when the shadow on the ground beside him grows larger.

"Remember son," says Vijay's father. "Harappa is you now. As long as you live, Harappa lives. Do anything, everything to ensure your survival."

"Yes, father." They hug once more. Vijay wonders whether this is the last time either of them will feel each other's embrace. But Vijay puts the thought out of his mind. He will win. He will return.

Vijay meets his friends on the surface of the base. They go to several places, to eat and some to drink. But Vijay doesn't indulge himself. He doesn't speak much as well. And his friends know enough, to not bother him. Finally, they drop him at the airport, where he will catch his flight to Beijing and then to Xi'an.

As he's checking in, he notices the cameras. Something draws his attention towards him. The service-assistant is saying something, but his attention is elsewhere. He sees the camera move slowly, side-to-side.

"Sir, you are in luck. You have been upgraded to First Class as you are a winner of the new jackpot scheme..." he hears. "Luck," he thinks. "Has got nothing to do with this." He realizes who's hand is behind this.

Chanakya.

He will be watching. Waiting to step in, to intervene. Vijay hopes that it won't happen too soon.

After all, this is Vijay's Endgame.

 **Jago Tlaloc, Sarah Alopay**

Train T41, Car 8, Passing through Shijiazhuang, China

Depart: Beijing

Arrive: Xi'an

Jago Tlaloc is on an overnight train from Beijing to Xi'an. It has taken him nearly three days to get this far. Juliaca to Lima. Lima to Miami. Miami to Chicago. Chicago to Beijing. 24,122 km. 13,024.838 nautical miles. 79,140,413.56 feet.

And now the train for 11.187 hours.

Longer if it gets delayed.

Endgame doesn't wait, so he is hoping for no delays.

Jago has a private sleeping cabin, but the mattress is hard and he's restless. He sits up and crosses his legs, counts his breaths. He stares out the window and thinks of the most beautiful things he has ever seen: a girl falling asleep in the sand as the sun set over a beach in Colombia, streams of moonlight reflecting off the rippling waters of the Amazon, the lines of the Nazca giant on the day he became a Player. His mind won't calm, though. His breath is not full. Positive visualizations disintegrate under the weight.

He cannot stop thinking about the horror visited on his hometown. The hellfire and the smell of burning plastic and flesh, and the sounds of crying men, burned women, and dying children. The helplessness of the firemen, the army, the politicians. The helplessness of everyone and everything in the face of the violence.

The day after Jago claimed his piece of the meteorite, the sun rose on a huddled mass of people lined up outside his parents' villa. Some of them had lost everything and hoped his family would be able to restore them. As Jago packed, his parents did what they could. On television, astrophysicists made hollow promises about how an event like this would never happen again.

They are wrong.

More are coming.

Bigger, more devastating.

More will suffer.

More will burn.

More will die.

The people called the meteor that fell on Juliaca, 'el puño del diablo.' The Devil's Fist. Eleven other fists punched into the earth, killing many, many more.

The meteors fell and now the world is different.

Vulnerable.

Terrified.

Jago knows he should be above such feelings. He has trained to be above such feelings, yet he cannot sleep, cannot relax, cannot calm himself. He swings his legs over the bed and places his bare feet on the thin, cool carpet. He cracks his neck and closes his eyes.

The meteorites were just a preamble.

"Todo, todo el tiempo," he thinks. "Todo."

"He stands. His knees creak. He has to get out of his compartment, move, try to clear his mind. He grabs a pair of green cargo pants and pulls them on. His legs are thin, strong. They have done more than 100,000 squats. He sits in the chair and puts on wool socks, leather moccasins. His feet have kicked a heavy bag over 250,000 times. He straps a small tactical knife to his forearm and slips into a long-sleeved plaid shirt. He has done over 15,000 one-handed pull-ups. He grabs his iPod and sticks in a pair of black earbuds. He turns on music. The music is hard, heavy, and loud. Metal. His music and his weapons. Heavy. Heavy metal.

He steps to the door of his compartment. Before exiting he looks in the full-length mirror. He is tall, thin, and taut as if made of high-tension wire. His hair is jet-black, short, and messed. His skin is the colour of caramel, the colour of his people, undiluted for 8,000 years. His eyes are black. His face is pockmarked from a skin infection he had when he was seven, and he has a long, jagged scar that runs from the corner of his left eye, down his cheek, over his jaw, and onto his neck. He got the scar when he was 12, in a knife fight. It was with another kid a little older than him. Jago got the scar, but he took the kid's life. Jago is ugly and menacing. He knows that people fear him because of the way he looks, which generally amuses him. They should fear him for what he knows. What he can do. What he has done.

He opens the door, steps into the hall, walks. The music blares in his ears, hard, heavy, and loud, drowning out the steely screech of the wheels on the rails.

He steps into the dining car. Five people are seated at three tables: two Chinese businessmen sitting alone, one asleep in his booth, his head on the table, the other drinking tea and staring at his laptop; a Chinese couple speaking quietly and intensely; a girl with long, auburn hair woven into a braid, her back to him.

Jago buys a bag of peanuts and a Coke and walks toward an empty table across from the girl with the auburn hair. She is not Chinese. She is reading the latest edition of China Daily. The page is covered in colour photos of devastation from the crater in Xi'an. The crater where the Small Wild Goose Pagoda had stood. He sits down. She's five feet away from him, engrossed in the paper; she does not look up.

He removes the peanuts from their shells, pops them into his mouth, sips the Coke. He stares at her. She's pretty, looks like an American tourist, a medium-sized backpack next to her. He has seen countless girls like her stop in Juliaca on their way to Lake Titicaca.

"It's not polite to stare," she says, looking at the paper.

"I didn't think you'd noticed," he replies in accented English.

"I did." She still hasn't looked at him.

"Can I join you? I haven't spoken to many people the past few days, and this country can be bien loco, you know?"

"Tell me about it," she says, looking up, her eyes drilling into him. She's easily the most beautiful American, and maybe woman, he's ever seen. "Come on over."

He half rises and sidles into the booth opposite her. "Peanut?"

"No thanks."

"Smart."

"Hm?"

"Not to accept food from a stranger."

"Were you going to poison me?"

"Maybe."

She smiles and seems to reconsider like he's challenged her to a dare. "What the

hell, I will take my chances."

Her smile crushes him. He is usually the one who has to charm a woman, which he has done dozens of times, but this one is charming him. He holds out the bag and she takes a handful of the peanuts, spreads them on the table in front of her.

"How long you been here?" she asks.

"On the train?"

"No. In China."

"Little over three weeks," he says, lying.

"Yeah? Me too. About three weeks." His training has taught him how to tell if someone is lying, and she is. Interesting. He wonders if she could be one of them.

"Where you from?" he asks.

"America."

"No kidding. Where in America?"

"Omaha." She's not lying this time. "You?"

"Peru, near Lake Titicaca." So he won't lie either.

She raises her eyebrows and smirks. "I never thought that was a real place until these-" She points at the paper.

"The meteors."

"Yeah." She nods. "It's a funny name. Lake Titty Caca." She pronounces the words

individually like all amused English speakers do. "You couldn't come up with anything better than that?"

"Depending on who you ask, it either means Stone of the Puma or Crag of Lead, and it's considered by many to be a mystical, powerful place. Americans seem to think UFOs visit it and aliens created it."

"Imagine that," she says, smiling. "Omaha's not mystical at all. Most people think it's kind of boring, actually. We got good steak, though. And Warren Buffet."

Jago chuckles. He assumes that's a joke. He doesn't know who Warren Buffet is, but he has a fat, dumb American name.

"It's weird, isn't it?" She cracks another peanut.

"What?"

"I'm from Omaha, you are from near Lake Titicaca, and we are on a train to Xi'an.

The meteors hit in each place."

"Yes, that is weird."

"What's your name?"

"Feo." He pops a peanut in his mouth.

"Nice to meet you, Feo. I'm Sarah." She pops a peanut in her mouth. "Tell me—you going to Xi'an to see the crater?"

"Me? No. Just touring. I can't imagine the Chinese government is going to be letting anyone get too close to it anyway."

"Can I ask you another question, Feo?"

"Sure."

"You like to play games?"

She's outed herself. He's not sure this is wise. His response will go a long way to determine whether or not he will be outed too.

"Not really," he answers quickly. "I like puzzles, though."

She leans back. Her tone changes, the flirtatious lilt melting away. "Not me. I like knowing things for sure one way or the other. I hate uncertainty. I tend to eliminate it as quickly as I can, get it out of my life."

"Probably a good policy, if you can actually do it."

She smiles, and though he should be tense and ready to kill her, her smile disarms him. "So—Feo. That means something?"

"It means 'ugly.'"

"Your parents name you that?"

"My real name is Jago; everyone just calls me Feo."

"You are not, though, even though you are trying to be."

"Thank you," he replies, unable to stop himself from smiling, the diamonds in his teeth flashing. He decides to throw her a crumb. If she takes it, they will both know. He's not sure that it's a smart play, but he knows one must take risks to win Endgame. Enemies are a given. Friends are not. Why not take advantage of an early chance encounter and find out which this beautiful American will be?"

"So, Sarah from Omaha who is here on vacation, while you're in Xi'an do you want to visit the Big Wild Goose Pagoda with me?"

Before she can answer, a white flash comes from outside. The train lurches and brakes. The lights flicker and go out. A loud sound like a vibrating string comes from the other side of the dining car. Jago's eyes are momentarily drawn to the faint blip-blip of a red light from under a table. He looks back to the window when the light outside intensifies. He and Sarah both stand and move toward it. In the distance, a bright streak runs across the sky, going east to west. It looks like a shooting star, but it's too low, and its trajectory is as straight as a razor's edge. Jago and Sarah both stare, transfixed, as the streak speeds against the darkness of the Chinese night. At the last minute, before it passes from view, the streak suddenly changes direction and moves in an 88-degree angle north to south, disappearing over the horizon. They pull back from the window and the lights come back and the train starts to accelerate. The other people in the dining car are talking urgently, but none seem to have noticed the thing outside.

Jago stands. "Come with me."

"Where?"

"Come with me if you want to live."

"What are you talking about?"

He holds out his hand. "Now."

She stands and follows him but makes a point of not taking his hand. As they walk

he says, "If I told you I'm the Player of the 21st line, would that mean anything to you?"

"I would tell you I'm the Player of the 233rd."

"Truce, at least for now?"

"Yes, for now."

They reach the table where Jago saw the blinking red light. The Chinese couple is sitting at it. They stop talking and look at the two foreigners quizzically. Jago and Sarah ignore the couple, and Jago kneels and Sarah bends to look over his shoulder. Bolted to the wall under the table is a black metal box with a small, faintly blinking red LED in the middle. Above the LED is a Mandarin character. In the corner of the black box is a digital display. It reads AA:AA:AQ. A second later "AA:AA:AP.

Another second, AA:AA:AO.

"Is that what I think it is?" Sarah asks, taking a step back.

"I'm not willing to wait around to find out," Jago says.

"Me neither."

"Let's get your bag."

They head back to the table and Jago grabs the backpack. They move to the rear of the car and open the door, step into the space between cars.

If the letters are seconds, they have 11 left.

Sarah pulls the emergency brake.

It doesn't work.

The moving landscape is there. Waiting for them.

"Go," Jago says, stepping aside.

Eight seconds.

She doesn't hesitate, jumps.

Seven seconds.

He hugs the backpack, hoping it will soften his landing, jumps.

It hurts when he lands, but he's been trained to ignore pain. He rolls down a gravel embankment and into the dirt, takes a mouthful of grass, scratches his face and hands. He can't be sure, but he thinks he's dislocated his right shoulder.

Three seconds.

He stops rolling.

Two seconds.

She's a few yards away, already standing, as if she somehow landed unhurt. "You all right?" she asks.

One second.

The train is past them.

"Yes," he says, wondering if she can tell he's lying.

Zero seconds.

She crouches next to him, waiting for the train to explode.

Nothing happens.

The stars are out.

They stare.

Wait.

Jago looks in the sky above the train and sees Leo and Cancer above the western horizon.

"Maybe we overreacted-" Sarah starts to say, just as the dining car lights up and the windows blow out. The entire car is lifted 50 feet or more into the air amidst a cloud of orange fire. The force ripples through the train. The aft cars crumple, momentum piling them into a screeching and jumbled pile. The forward cars are obscured by the blast and the darkness, but Jago can make out the lights of the engine as it's twisted off the rails. The sound of grating metal tears through the night and another, smaller, explosion goes off toward the front of the train. There is a brief moment of silence, just before the screaming starts.

"Mierda," Jago says breathlessly.

"I guess we are going to have to get used to things like that, aren't we?"

"Yes." Jago winces.

"What is it?"

"My shoulder."

"Let me see."

Jago turns to Sarah. His right arm is hanging low in his shirt.

"Can you move your fingers?"

"He can.

"Your wrist?"

He can.

"Good."

She gingerly takes his arm with both hands and lifts it a little. The pain shoots over his shoulder and down his back, but he doesn't say anything. He has been through far worse.

"Dislocated. I don't think it's too bad," she says.

"You don't think, or you don't know?"

"I don't think. I have only set one of these before. For my brother," she says quietly.

"Can you put it back?"

"Of course, Feo. I'm a Player," she says, trying not to sound like she's convincing herself. "I can do all sorts of wonderful things." She lifts it again. "It's gonna hurt, though."

"I don't care."

"Sarah pulls, twists, and pushes the arm, and it pops into place. Jago breathes deeply through his teeth, testing out his arm. It works.

"Thank you, Sarah."

The screaming is louder.

"You would have done the same for me."

Jago smiles. For some reason, he thinks of the people who came to see his parents after the meteor struck Juliaca. There are some debts that must be honoured.

"No, I wouldn't have," he says. "But I will now."

Sarah stands, looks toward the wreckage. "We need to get out of here. Before the government gets here and starts asking questions we can't answer."

"You think it was meant for one of us?" Jago asks.

"It had to be. This is Endgame," she says, reaching out her hand, offering it. "My name is Sarah Alopay. I'm the Cahokian."

He takes her hand, and it lights him up, feels as if it belongs in his as if it's something he's been waiting for. It also scares him, because he knows these feelings can be dangerous, can make him vulnerable, especially with someone who has the skills he suspects she has. For now, though, he will allow himself to feel it, to love it.

"I'm Jago Tlaloc. The Olmec."

"Nice to meet you, Jago Tlaloc. Thank you for saving my life. I owe you one."

Jago looks up at the cloudless sky, remembering the streak of light that passed overhead, that short-circuited the train's power long enough for him to see the blinking light of the detonator. He will take credit for saving Sarah, sure. It's good to have another Player in his debt. But he knows the truth: that streak across the sky was a warning. A warning from Them, making sure that they would live until at least the Calling.

"Don't mention it," he says.

Without another word, Sarah puts her backpack on and starts to run into the darkness. She's fast, strong, graceful. He smiles as he watches her braid sway back and forth.

He has a new friend.

The beautiful Player of the 233rd.

A new friend.

Maybe more.


End file.
